


Forgive and Forget

by denisemp



Series: Bumbling Towards Ecstacy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denisemp/pseuds/denisemp
Summary: Molly Hooper can forgive, but can she forget?  How Molly and Sherlock move on from the end of The Final Problem.





	1. The Most Forgiving

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written anything close to a fanfiction before, so please let me know what you think. I felt almost compelled after the last episode of Sherlock :). I hope everyone writes one. Definitely Sherlolly, but also a lot of Molly friendships. With Mycroft and John particularly. I'm always interested in Molly relating to other characters aside from Sherlock. Please let know what you think. I hope to post regularly.
> 
> Not beta'd - mistakes are all mine. I own nothing but my love for the series.
> 
> First chapter is all Molly and Mycroft, but it's coming. Rating may go up, if my courage allows it, and will be clearly marked.

When Molly Hooper opened the door to her flat, she was almost relieved to find Mycroft Holmes standing on the threshold, rather than the Holmes who usually woke her up in the middle of the night.

“What’s happened now?” she said. “Is it Sherlock?”

Mycroft Holmes appeared uncomfortable in a way she had never seen before. Usually buttoned up and proper, he had a windblown look to him. He was actually disheveled. He looked…embarrassed, which made her a bit nervous, honestly. He also didn’t speak. Just stared at her for a full minute, opening and closing his mouth, like he couldn’t find the words he needed to say. 

“Mr. Holmes, what’s going on?” A horrible, terrifying thought struck her. I…love you. I love you. “Oh god, is it Sherlock? Is…is he…hurt?” Using again? That would explain a lot.

This seemed to jolt Mycroft into action. He reached out and, unbelievably, put a hand on her forearm, squeezing. “Dr. Hooper, no! My brother is absolutely…fine. Not hurt. No.” He squeezed her arm again, before letting his drop away. “But I do need to speak with you about him. May I come in?”

Despite the fact that she was furious with Sherlock, more angry than she thought she had ever been with anyone, her shoulders slumped in relief. Whatever this was though…it couldn’t be good, having Mycroft Holmes show up on your doorstep at nearly 3am.

She stepped back into her flat, opening the door wider and silently inviting him to follow her. Mycroft stepped over the threshold, and a few paces inside, stopping in the middle of the room, looking around, assessing. He turned to Molly and asked, strangely, “Where is your kitchen?”

“My kitchen?” Alright. Odd. She pointed across the open space. Her flat was open plan, and the kitchen was apparent as soon as you walked through the door. 

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.” He took off across the space, Molly following close behind. He stepped into the middle of the room, looking around, a curious expression on his face. Molly stood in the doorway, watching him, trying to figure out what he was playing at. He began spinning around in a slow circle, looking up and down, seeking...something.

He’s off his nut. “Are you particularly interested in kitchens, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“Hmmmm?” he replied, still spinning and scanning.

Oh god. The kitchen. Say it like you mean it.

Molly moved toward him, grabbing his arm and stopping his momentum. “What the hell is going on? Why are you in my flat at 3am? Where is Sherlock? Did he send you? Are you part of whatever game he’s playing at this time?” Mycroft looked down at her hand, holding his arm, and Molly dropped it and stepped back. He scared her, rather, but she was too angry and upset to be scared of him right now. “Of course you are. Tell me what’s going on right now, or get the hell out of my kitchen and my flat.”

Mycroft Holmes was tired. Tired, sore and angry. Angry at his sister. At himself. At Sherlock for asking this of him. Coward. Though looking at Molly Hooper’s angry, hurt face, tear tracks staining her cheeks, he couldn’t say he blamed Sherlock for pawning this distasteful duty off on to him. Emotions were NOT Mycroft’s milieu, not even a little, and perhaps that was a strength at this moment. He could get through this without humiliating Molly Hooper more than necessary. More than she had been humiliated. All his fault. Only fair.

Mycroft said not a word, but walked confidently to three different points in her kitchen, fiddled a bit, and each time came back with something tiny in his hand. Something tiny and well hidden. He walked back to Molly, grabbed her hand, and placed the objects gently in her palm. She looked down at them, curiously, then back up at Mycroft. “What?”, she began, and Mycroft interrupted her. “Dr. Hooper, if you would put the kettle on, I’ll gladly explain everything. But, honestly, I could murder a cup of tea right now. Would you be so kind?”

Molly stared at the objects in her hand, then back to Mycroft. She studied his face. Tired. Exhausted, really. Sad. Angry. At himself? For the first time ever, Molly saw a resemblance to his younger brother. She’d seen that look on Sherlock’s face. Many times. And it never boded well. Never.

She dropped the objects, whatever the hell they were, into the pocket of her dressing gown, and moved past Mycroft to the put on the kettle. “Go sit down, Mr. Holmes. You look like you’re about to fall over. I’ll bring the tea.” She started the kettle, while Mycroft moved to the other room, and dropped wearily onto her sofa. It was comfortable. There was a cat at one end, curled up, tail to nose, eyeing him. Mycroft despised cats. The cat’s eyes dropped lazily closed, and so did Mycroft’s.

The next thing Mycroft Holmes knew, he was being gently shaken awake. His eyes popped open. He was still upright, hands gently folded in his lap. Always the gentleman. Molly Hooper’s hand was on his shoulder, and she was looking at him with…was it concern? Hard to tell. She had placed a beautiful, old tea tray on the table in front of him, pot steaming. Antique. Grandmother’s. Sentiment. She began pouring them both a cup, and he noticed a plate, piled high with biscuits. Homemade. Likes to bake. Very good at it. Grandmother again. Brings them to work because she has no one else to share them with.

Molly asked quietly how he took his tea. She prepared him a perfect cup. Then herself. She seated herself beside him on the sofa, a good distance away, one did NOT crowd a Holmes, and pulled her feet up under her. She watched Mycroft take a small sip, his eyes closing with pleasure. After a quiet moment, while they both carefully sipped, Molly offered, “You can have a biscuit.” No response. “You look hungry.” Nothing. “I won’t tell Sherlock.”

Mycroft looked at her out of the corner of his eye. One side of her mouth was slightly drawn up in an impish smile, but her eyes…her eyes were sad. He sighed and reached for a biscuit, dipping it briefly into his tea and popping it into his mouth. Heaven. He chewed carefully and swallowed. Took another fortifying sip of tea, then put the cup carefully down. He turned to Molly, who was watching him warily over her own cup of tea. Bracing herself.

“Sherlock and I have a sister.”

********************

Mycroft was on his third cup of very good tea. The plate of excellent biscuits was embarrassingly depleted. He’d told the story, beginning to end, not leaving anything out, a rarity for him, and now there was only blessed quiet. He was hoarse from talking, and frankly sick of listening to his own voice, something he’d never been before. Sherlock would be so pleased.

Molly Hooper had listened to everything, asking pointed questions, and letting him answer completely, without interrupting. There was a wonderful quality about her that Mycroft had never appreciated before. She didn’t judge. Astonishing, really. She hadn’t exclaimed or cried, even when he told her the true story behind Sherlock’s phone call. In fact, the only time she had ever shown emotion was when he told her about Eurus and the little girl on the plane, and Victor Trevor. "Poor thing. Oh…poor, poor thing." When he told her that he had lied to his parents, and Sherlock, about Eurus’ death so many years ago, she'd laid her hand on his arm briefly. "That must have been so hard. You were trying to protect them, I know." 

When the story was over, and the tea things cleared - "Just sit, you’re exhausted, I’ll do it" - she walked him to the door, and out onto the stoop where his car had been waiting. She handed over the three little cameras, and curled his fist over them with her own small hand. Destroy them.

She had thanked him, thanked him!, for telling her the truth, and even dared to place a small kiss on his cheek in farewell. As she turned back into her flat, day finally dawning, he grabbed her arm gently and pulled her back to face him.

“And Sherlock?” He finally asked. For after all, that was what Sherlock had really wanted from him. He was there to retrieve the cameras, of course. To guard her privacy. But what Sherlock had really been after was this…what did all this mean to his friendship with Molly Hooper. Had he destroyed it beyond repair? 

Molly’s lips quirked. “Sentiment, Mycroft?” The first time she had used his given name. “I suppose I’m not at my best, Molly.” He smiled at her. “I’ve been wearing the same socks for three days.” A real smile this time. A laugh. Beautiful.

She sobered. “The honest answer?” He nodded. “I don’t know. The idea of facing him again…though I suppose I owe him an apology.”

Mycrofts eyebrows jumped. “You owe HIM an apology?”

She nodded, looking down at her feet. “I was having a very bad day. Terrible, really. When he called I wasn’t…It wasn’t a good time for games, which I understand now it wasn’t, but I thought it was. I thought he knew, and was making fun of me. Or worse, that he was high. I know I’m rambling, sorry. I was so angry, so furious, and I forced him to say something. Something I knew was hard for him, and worse, something I knew he didn’t mean. To make myself feel better, and because…because I wanted to hurt him, like I thought he was trying to hurt me.” Tears were imminent again, and Mycroft felt horrible all of a sudden, like he had kicked a puppy. She went on. “Once something is said. Out loud. It’s hard to take back. Can I forgive him? Easily. But I don’t know if I can forget. I’m afraid I won’t be able to. We’ll see. That’s the best I have right now on thirty minutes sleep in two days.”

Mycroft nodded and took her hand. “Sherlock sent me here, you know.” Another small nod from Molly. “He told me you were the most forgiving person he’s ever known. Of course you forgive him. Forgive yourself.” That got a small smile. He brought her tiny hand up to his face and kissed her knuckles. The look on Molly’s face as he did this made him want to laugh, she was so astonished. He released her and turned to go, getting down three steps before something occurred to him, and he turned back to her. “Why were you having such a bad day?”

Molly wrapped her arms around her waist. Protective. “It was supposed to be my wedding day.”

Ah. Ted? Tony? 

Mycroft nodded, not knowing what to say, except, “my brother is an idiot.”

Molly nodded again, “a complete arse.”

Molly watched as Mycroft climbed into the back of the luxury car. He held a hand up to her, and then he was gone, whisked away to god know’s where. She hoped for his sake it was to home and bed, as she turned to make her way to her own.


	2. Be a Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly decides not to be a diamond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments. I'm going to keep going! Thanks for the positive feedback on my version of why Molly was having "a bad day." Wasn't sure it fit with the timeline, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
> 
> I had Chapter 2 ready, so I figured why not :). Chapter 3 probably tomorrow, which will be the first direct Sherlock/Molly interaction. This is mostly Molly, some John and a teeny tiny bit of Sherlock. A little Rosie and a little Toby too. 
> 
> I'm very interested in how people interpreted the phone call in TFP so differently, and I love reading all the interpretations. There are a heck of a lot of talented people out there!
> 
> Hope you enjoy. I own nothing!

When Molly’s eyes opened the next day, it was after twelve straight hours of, thankfully, dreamless sleep. She laid in bed for a bit, appreciating how cozy she was, under her snuggly duvet, with Toby curled at her waist in his usual spot. She scratched behind his ears, listened to his soothing purring, and thought, “you may only be a cat, but I love you.” Toby seemed to return the sentiment, purring louder and stretching all four paws out in different directions in his silly cat way, that always made Molly smile. So she said it out loud to him. “I love you, Toby.” Toby lifted a long back leg to his mouth and began carefully cleaning his toes.

While lying there, Molly tried to assess how she was feeling. Her body felt rested. Her mind clear for the first time in two days. Emotionally? She had once considered herself to be an open book. Her feelings always clearly on display for all to see. If she was happy, she smiled and laughed. If she was sad, she cried. If she loved someone, she told them. She had been fearless in that way once, especially after she had lost her father. When he passed, and she was left with no family, she had told her friends, all the time, right out, how much she loved them, appreciated them. She gave hugs and affection easily, readily. When she was in a relationship, she was completely and passionately all-in. Had she been hurt? Absolutely. Many times. But she had never once been cowed. Until she met Sherlock Holmes. 

How he had fascinated her. Beautiful, brilliant and cold, like a diamond. But underneath the surface? There was something hot there, something passionate. It was clear to her in the way he pursued his cases and his science. How he dressed himself in fine, sensual fabrics. How he ate his food, when he finally did, with fingers and licks and groans of appreciation. Something vital and untapped was flowing under the surface, and …oh how Molly wanted to be the one to release it. When she understood that it would never happen, never could happen, she had forced that passionate love for him deep inside. Protected it, and herself. Had she been so successful at hiding her love from Sherlock, that she had begun to hide it from everyone else as well? Did they still know, her friends? Was she still the open and caring Molly she had always been, or had Sherlock overtaken everything? She honestly didn’t know. And that frightened her. 

So, what did she truly know about herself? Who was Molly Hooper? Now. Today. She knew she was a bit plain to look at, a bit odd in personality and profession, and perhaps even a bit clumsy. She also knew she had an ability to see people clearly. Who they were deep down. And she knew, even at their first meeting, she had seen something in Sherlock Holmes that he didn’t see in himself. A longing to connect. A loneliness. An oddness, like her own. And it had called to something deep inside her. But. Not interested in relationships. Married to his work. Gay, straight, asexual? He didn’t want her. And that was okay. Mostly. 

His friendship with John Watson had changed and softened Sherlock enough that he became her friend as well, and that, in itself, was glorious. It was a singular kind of friendship. He was still cold at times, dismissive, and could even be hurtful, though she knew he really tried not to be. But, even still, she was his true friend, and he was hers. He trusted her in a way that he didn’t trust many people. And he had given her so much. He had given her John and Mary, and little Rosie. He had shared Baker Street with her, and Mrs. Hudson. He had trusted her with his life. He had invited her to solve crimes with him, and he had wished her happy. She didn’t expect anything in return for her friendship, except for his respect. But, the problem was…oh the problem was…she not only loved him, she was in love with him. And now he knew that in a way neither of them could deny. Now that it was out there, really out there, said in front of witnesses no less, what was she going to do about Sherlock Holmes? What was she going to do about Molly Hooper? Molly Hooper, who had allowed herself to be turned into a damned diamond, and who hadn’t even realized it. 

She swung the covers away and sat up. “Well. Bugger that!”

********************

She showered for the first time in two days. Glorious. She washed and conditioned her long hair, and wrapped it up in a towel, to be blown dry, smooth and beautiful later. Best feature. She dressed in her newest bra and pants, and pulled on her best jeans, and a dark green, long sleeved top that hugged her figure. She topped it with one of her horribly colorful jumpers, and felt the most like herself she had in a very long time. She fed Toby. Made tea. Laid on her couch with an ice mask over her eyes for thirty minutes. She applied a bit of makeup, and blew her hair our long and lovely. Definitely her best feature.

Then she sat on her couch, phone in hand, honestly trembling a bit, and dialed the number.

********************

“Molly?”

“Hi John. Okay?” She sat cross-legged on her couch and listened to the sounds of the Watson household. She could hear Rosie fussing in the background. “Is this a bad time?”

John Watson held his phone to one ear, while attempting to stuff another spoonful of baby food into his daughter’s mouth. That more food was on her face and bib than had made it into her little body…well, John blamed that on the fact that the stuff was, frankly, disgusting. He wouldn’t want to eat it either. Still, he soldiered on and got another bit of it down her throat. 

“No. Molly. No. Not a bad time. Just feeding…well attempting to feed Rosie. She hates this muck. Can’t blame her.”

“If it’s the peas, leave off. Try the pears,” Molly said helpfully.

John dumped the peas, grabbed a jar of pears and a spoon, and handed both off to Sherlock, who was hovering in the doorway, not even attempting to hide his eavesdropping. John jerked his head toward Rosie in her highchair, and left the room, closing the sliding door behind him, trying to gain some privacy.

“No, it’s okay. We’re done now anyway. Don’t think she’ll starve.” John paced for a bit and neither of them spoke, though he could clearly hear Molly breathing, a bit nervously he thought. “Mols?”

“Oh…um…yes…just wanted to make sure you were okay. That everything is okay. Um…I had a visit from Mycroft last night. Lived to tell the tale. Thought he might have come to kill me.” She snorted a little laugh.

There was total silence from the kitchen, and John knew absolutely that Sherlock had an ear pressed to the door, the dick.

“So…Mycroft told you? Everything?”

“Yes, I think so. Psychotic sister. My coffin. You down a well. You know, the highlights.”

John breathed a sigh of relief, thanking god for Mycroft just this once, since he didn’t think he could tell the story again after being debriefed for most of the previous evening.

“And he got the cameras?” John asked tentatively, not wanting to refer to that horrible phone-call, or what he had seen and heard, not even a little bit.

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. Are you okay?”

He heard Molly’s laugh, strangled, but a real one, and he felt himself smile in response. “Stupid question, right?”

“John, would it be okay….that is, is it okay if I come over?”

“You want to come over?” John repeated the question loudly, so there was no chance that his eavesdropping friend could miss it. Sherlock’s head immediately popped through the door. He shook his head vigorously…NO.

John totally ignored him. “Sure Molly, whenever. We’ll be here. Rosie and me. But, I’ll warn you, Sherlock’s here as well.”

Silence. Then…

“OK. I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Need anything?”

“Nappies!” He replied instantly.

A real Molly Hooper laugh this time. “Better make it forty-five then. I’ll stop.”

Sherlock was directing a glare so evil at him, that John didn’t know how his eyebrows weren’t singed. “You’re a lifesaver, Molly. Ta.”

John hung up the phone and turned to face his friend. “She knows you’re here, and she’s still coming. That’s good. That means she doesn’t hate you, you idiot.”

“You don’t know that. She could be coming to disembowel me…with a rusty scalpel. Or, at best, slap me silly again.” Sherlock rubbed his free hand over his cheek. “Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.”

“Yes she is, Sherlock. Don’t cock it up. If she needs to slap you, then you stand there and take it. It’s no less than you deserve. If she forgives you for this, you better get down on your knees at her feet and thank her. Sincerely. She’s important to me, and to Rosie.”

“And to ME,” Sherlock responded, irritated.

John looked him directly in the eye. “Then be a soldier.”


	3. Steady On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steady, that was John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly John and Molly, but Sherlock and Molly do meet again...
> 
> Last chapter for today. Will be updating again tomorrow. Thank you all so much for the encouragement. This is fun!
> 
> Not beta'd - any gaffs belong to yours truly.
> 
> I own nothing. And I mean, nothing!

Molly struggled from the taxi, her arms full of Tesco bags. She might have gone overboard. Just a bit. When she had stopped to dutifully pick up the requested nappies, she realized that John probably, definitely, hadn’t had time to do any shopping in the recent past. So, she picked up some baby food for Rosie, no peas, some tea, coffee, milk, and bread. Also, some eggs, sausages, cheese, a bottle of wine, and some frozen dinners, just in case. And the biscuits John liked. And some of the ones Sherlock preferred. What could she do?

As she struggled to pay the driver and not drop her purchases, the front door opened, and there was John coming to her rescue. He grabbed the bags from her, laughing. “I said nappies, Molly!”

Molly finished paying the driver and turned to face her friend. He looked tired, but okay. Steady, that was John Watson. “I know, but I thought you couldn’t possibly have had time to get anything in, and you have Rosie to feed, and now Sh…Sherlock too.” She faltered at the name, a fact which John tactfully ignored. “Mrs. Hudson called me from her sister’s. She told me about Baker Street. I wanted to help.”

John smiled at her. “You always help, Molly. You’ve been amazing.”

This seemed to brighten Molly a bit, and she was able to follow John, almost confidently, up the steps, almost not looking like she was going to an execution. Almost. When they got inside, the front room was empty, and Molly wondered if Sherlock had scarpered. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. Though cowardly, and Sherlock was many things, but not a coward, she would have understood. Sherlock Holmes did not do awkward well. For Molly, it was almost a state of being. She was used to it. Feeling it. Being it. And she was going to hold on to that now. Revel in it. Awkward? Not a problem for Molly Hooper.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she asked, half-hoping the answer would be Tristan da Cunha. 

“Sleeping.” John replied, eyeing her. “Said he’d probably be out for a while. Rosie’s down too. Just us adults.”

She sighed in relief, a reprieve!, and followed John into his bright kitchen. Which was…a mess. A total, absolute pig sty. Almost worse than Baker Street on its worst day. He dropped the bags onto the table, used cutlery crashing to the floor, and turned to her sheepishly. “I wish I could blame the state of things on Sherlock, but…with Rosie…and everything…haven’t had time to run the hoover.”

Molly sighed and rolled up the sleeves of her jumper. “You put the groceries away, I’ll fill the washer. We’ll clean this mess and get something on for tea.”

John started, “Molly, no, I…” 

“John, yes,” she interrupted. “You’ve just been through an awful ordeal. You’re still grieving, and you have a baby to take care of. You need to let me help. Please. I want to.”

John looked down for a moment, and when he looked up there were tears in his eyes. Molly’s heart gave an absolute lurch in her chest, and she propelled herself forward. John’s arms locked around her tightly, and he pressed his face into her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear, “Thank you for being here for us. For me. For Rosie. Despite everything. Just…thank you.”

Molly pulled back far enough to look him in the eye. “I will ALWAYS be here for you. And Rosie.” She hesitated for a moment, and then…”I love you both. So much.” John pulled her back into his arms, squeezing the life out of her. “And we love you.”

********************

As John and Molly worked side by side, cleaning the horror that was his kitchen and putting together something resembling a meal, John told her a bit more about Sherringford, from his point of view. His tale differed slightly from Mycroft’s, but it was all essentially the same, sad, tragic story. Her heart broke for Sherlock, for Mycroft, their parents, for little Victor Trevor, and even for Eurus. John refrained from repeating any details of Molly’s part in the story, for which she was grateful, she wasn’t ready yet. But, even still, she realized she WOULD talk to John about it some day, probably some day soon. When they were alone. Hopefully over drinks. Many drinks. And he would listen, and not judge her, and stand her friend. Steady, that was John.

After that part of the tale was told, and Molly and John sat sipping tea at his now almost surgically clean table, John told her the hardest thing. The thing that, so far, he had only told Sherlock. About how HE had met Eurus. After he choked out the story, Molly rose and came to him, slipping her arm around him, and pulling his head to her chest. “Oh John. Oh John, I’m so…I’m so sorry. So sorry you’ve been carrying that around. You can tell me anything, you know? John, remember, you didn’t DO anything! You didn’t cheat on Mary.”

John buried his head tighter against her, confessing “But, I wanted to. I thought about it.”

She ran a hand through his hair soothingly, “But you didn’t. You stopped it.”

John lifted his face to look up at his friend., his eyes devoid of tears, painfully dry. “I keep thinking about it. I feel like I can’t even grieve her properly. All that time I was messing about, texting some woman, flirting for god know’s what reason, she was living the last few days of her life! I really did love her, Molly.” He dropped his head back to her chest. A muffled, “I miss her so much.”

Ah well. “Do you know John,” Molly said softly as she continued to stroke his hair, “that the day you were at Sherringford…the day Sherlock called me, it was supposed to be my wedding day?” She felt John go absolutely still against her, but she kept moving her hand through his hair, perhaps soothing herself this time. “And even though I broke things off with Tom, even though I knew it was the right decision, I was feeling really…bleak, I guess. There I was in my little flat, just me and Toby.” She laughed. “Perfect spinster, cat and all.” John’s arm went around her waist and squeezed. “I wanted to talk to someone about it. Someone who’d cheer me up, you know. Make me laugh. And…and…I picked up my phone to call Mary.” John turned his face farther info her, and Molly couldn’t hold back her tears anymore. “She was so funny, our Mary, wasn’t she? She was cool and fun, and always knew what to say. She was so unlike me, but she loved me anyway, and I loved her. I needed her so much right then, and it wasn’t until I was dialing her number that I remembered she wasn’t there anymore. That she’d never be there. And honestly, I felt a little desperate about it.”

“You could have called me,” came John’s muffled voice.

Molly laughed a bit wetly. “Well I really couldn’t, could I? With you being tortured by a psychotic Holmes sister at that exact moment. Anyway, thanks, but sometimes…I just wanted another woman, who would understand. A woman would understand how I was feeling, John. And then, I realized there was absolutely no one else I could call. No mother. No sisters. And…and since…everything…I’ve been out of touch with my girlfriends. I would have felt funny.”

Molly felt the place where John’s head rested becoming damp. No sound. He cried like soldier. “When you say, since everything, you mean, since Sherlock?”

Molly sighed. “I don’t want to be a diamond, John.”

John glanced up at her, face wet, with a look of absolute befuddlement. “A diamond?” His confused face struck her so funny at that moment that she burst out laughing. John clearly didn’t get the joke. Typical Hooper humor. Her snorting set him off too. He pulled her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and the two of them laughed and cried like lunatics.

And, of course, that was the moment that Sherlock Holmes chose to enter the room.

********************

Sherlock stood, frozen in the doorway of the kitchen. He noticed many things at once. The kitchen was now sparkling clean. Molly. The cupboards were full again. Molly. There was the smell of something wonderful coming from the oven. Molly. It was irritating.

He also noticed that his best friend had a lap-full of an either laughing or crying woman. Molly. Their arms were around each other, and they were making a lot of, frankly, horrid noises. Eyes were wet. Noses dripping. Tears or laughter? Hard to tell at the moment. Were they laughing at him? Crying over him? Did they even notice he was in the bloody room?

“What the devil is going on in here?” He may have raised his voice a bit. A tad. He also might have sounded a little like Mycroft at his crossest. Or, Mrs. Hudson. Maybe. But, really, the fuss!

Both John’s and Molly’s heads swung his way, twin looks of surprise on their faces. Then John said, perplexingly, “Molly’s a diamond,” and they both broke out into brays of unflattering laughter. Sherlock didn’t understand either John’s or Molly’s humor much of time, so he let this go. Instead, peevishly, “You two are making enough noise to raise the dead. You’ll wake Rosie.”

This seemed to sober them up a bit. Molly jumped from John’s lap, wiping at her face with a napkin. John stayed perched on the edge of his chair, breathing heavily, and muttered, “yes, Mother.” Which brought a deeply unladylike snort from behind the napkin.

Sherlock glared at John, who just raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, I needed that so much.” Molly’s face finally emerged from behind the napkin. Flushed. Eyes glimmering with moisture. Hair…well, her hair was always her best feature. Her hair was…fine. Alright it was pretty. 

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt very awkward. No. Not awkward. How was he feeing? Embarrassed? Yes. Truly, deeply, embarrassed. As if he had interrupted…something. He narrowed his eyes further at John.

John’s back suddenly went stiff. His head turning back and forth between Sherlock and Molly. “John, please stop. This isn’t Wimbledon,” Sherlock snapped, “you’ll get whiplash.” He moved through the kitchen to the kettle, deftly avoiding Molly and her pretty hair, thank you very much. Didn’t so much as glance at her. He knew he was being churlish, but he had no idea what to say to her, so he retreated, as he always did, behind a wall of “I don’t give a shite,” and began fixing himself a strong cup of tea.

“How did you sleep?” And suddenly there she was, right there beside him, looking at him with a calm expression he didn’t recognize, and, if he was being truthful with himself, he didn’t much like. Molly was the nervous one. The shy one. The one with the…crush. So why did he feel like the idiot? It didn’t seem like, from her expression or her question, she was going to slap him, so he ventured a tentative, “very well, thank you for asking.” It sounded so formal and stilted that he felt, unbelievably, a blush rising up on his cheeks. Is this what the world had come to?

Molly’s brow furrowed as she regarded him, then she shocked him by grabbing his arm and dragging him, force!, to the table and pushing him down in a chair. “I’m so glad to hear that Aunt Matilda, please enjoy your tea.” John choked and sputtered, giggling, yes giggling, the sod.

Molly turned back to the kettle and fixed herself another cup of tea, taking her time. She carried it to the table, set it down, and plopped herself gracelessly into a chair between the two men. The silence was deafening. John looked at Sherlock, head tilted toward Molly. The message was clear. Say something, you berk! Very well. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in John’s lap, Molly?” 

Oh. Dear. God.


	4. Her Dear Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is a wild card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter. This one was the hardest to write so far, so let me know.
> 
> John tries to extract Sherlock's foot from his mouth, and we all know how that usually goes.
> 
> Sherlock tries to apologize, but something happens.
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments. I'm glad you are enjoying the story. After this, things get a little less funny, and a bit more serious. 
> 
> Mistakes, me. Ownership, not me.

There are silences that are golden. Companionable. Peaceful. Even musical. This was not one of those.

Molly stared at Sherlock, mouth rather unattractively agape. 

Sherlock was gazing blankly at some point above John’s shoulder, horrified confusion, or something very like it, playing across his features. He felt his brain stuttering and seizing up, retreating into what John would term his “buffering mode.” 

John’s eyes were narrowed, almost to slits, burning a hole into Sherlock’s forehead. “Really?” 

This sarcastic, John-speak, propelled Sherlock back to the present with a jolt. He looked to his friend, totally ignoring the elephant in the room, though Molly made rather a petite elephant. “I honestly don’t know why I said that. It was the first thing that came to mind.”

John sat back in his seat, sighing, rubbing a hand across his face. “And that usually works out well for you, does it? Saying the first thing that comes to mind?”

“Sherlock,” came Molly’s tentative voice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was leaning toward him, hand outstretched.

Absolutely not! Sherlock leapt up from his chair. Tea things scattered across the table. “I have to….there’s a thing….very important…carry on.” With that he turned and practically ran from the kitchen, tails of his dressing gown fluttering behind him. Dramatically. There was the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the flat. Then Rosie started wailing.

John and Molly blinked at each other across the overturned tea cups.

“Well,” Molly offered quietly, “that went well.”

John huffed out a laugh. He rose and started gathering cups and plates, bringing them to the sink for washing.

Molly stood as well. “Should I…should we…” 

John turned to her. leaning back against the sink, arms crossed. “Yeah. I’ll take the baby. You get Rosie.”

********************

John Watson appreciated many things about his best friend. Sherlock Holmes was the smartest man he’d ever met. Maybe the bravest. Maybe even the best. But he was also arrogant, aggravating, and emotionally constipated. 

When John first met Sherlock, the detective was dismissive of any real, human emotion. It was sentiment, pure and simple, and beneath him. Relationships were not his area. He was married to his work. Caring was NOT an advantage. That was that.

But something about John’s friendship had changed the man. John hadn’t really understood why back then, but he thought that maybe now he did. Sherlock had lost his best friend once, in such a painful way, that he had turned off his emotions to protect himself from them, and John’s steadfast friendship had awoken something. Something that couldn’t be stopped, something that gathered speed like a barrel rolling downhill. Along the way, other friendships had been formed, like bumps along the road…Greg, Molly, his Mary. And here they were.

Now that Sherlock’s past had been fully restored to him, there was no protection anymore. The scab had been ripped open, and Sherlock Holmes was, suddenly and painfully, full of emotion. And he had absolutely no idea how to deal with it. Emotional context Sherlock. 

John’s friendship’s was safe. So had Mary’s been. So was Mrs. Hudson’s. And Greg’s. But Molly…Molly Hooper was a wild-card. John had always suspected that Sherlock’s vanity was secretly flattered by Molly’s love for him, even if he didn’t ask for it, or want it. Everyone knew how Molly felt about Sherlock. But how did Sherlock really feel about Molly? That wasn’t for John to decide, of course. If Sherlock loved Molly only as a dear friend, that was okay. If it was another kind of love? Well, frankly, that would be weird, awkward, and embarrassing, and would take some getting used to. But how the world had been spinning off it’s axis today! A calm, contained Molly Hooper, and a stuttering, flustered Sherlock Holmes. Wonders never ceased.

John would muse on that later. And probably giggle a bit. Sherlock’s face! 

But, for right now, Molly had come to his home today, despite grievous hurt and humiliation, to reach out a hand in friendship, and Sherlock Holmes was going to strap on a pair and meet her half-way, even if it was with John dragging his stupid, posh arse to get him there.

**********************

John knocked on the door. Rustling noises from within, then a loud, “Busy! Go away!”

“You are not busy. You are hiding in there because you’re embarrassed. Get out here. Talk. To. Molly.”

“No really, John, important experiment. Can’t be interrupted.” More rustling.

“In the loo?”

Silence.

John jiggled the knob. “Sherlock? Are you afraid to come out here and face Molly Hooper?”

A scoffing, “Please!”

John laughed, leaning his head against the door. “You ARE. You are scared of ickle Molly Hooper.”

More rustling. A few concerning rhythmic slams. Medicine cabinet? Then a thump against the door.

Sherlock laid his forehead against the cool wood. “I might be…somewhat…anxious. Not scared!”

“Sherlock. It’s MOLLY. Why would you be…anxious?”

Sherlock turned his back to the door and thumped his head back against it groaning. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Interesting. “Well…what do you want to say?”

Sherlock covered his face with is hands. God this was awful. More horrible than the time Mycroft tricked him into taking his parents to see Gypsy. “I’m sorry?” he ventured.

“Is that a question?”

Smirking arsehole. Between clenched teeth…“That’s what I want to say.”

John stood back, clapping his hands. “Well there you go! C’mon then, open the door, bob’s-your-uncle.”

After a moment the lock turned, and the door opened, slowly, revealing Sherlock, a look of utter misery on his face. Oh John was enjoying this! “Did you wash your hands?”

“Sod off,” Sherlock pushed past him. John followed behind, chuckling.

********************

When Sherlock entered the front room, he was arrested by a sight so disgustingly awful that he stopped in his tracks, John bumping into his back with an annoyed “Oy!”

There, in the middle of the room, stood Molly Hooper, baby Rosie cradled in her arms, playing some sort of…kissing game. Young Watson had a fist full of Molly’s (pretty) hair, yanking in glee. Molly would bend down and kiss the baby’s little nose, then make some sort of absurd “wheeeee!” noise, which would propel Rosie into a fit of giggling, flailing, hair-pulling. Then the horror would start all over again. 

Sherlock watched this for approximately 10.5 seconds, then whirled around to flee. He, of course, crashed right into John, who held his arms and blocked his escape. “No!”

Sherlock struggled, but John was having none of it. “Oh yes!” John wrestled to turn him back around. 

Sherlock squirmed against his hold, trying to get a leg around to bring the other man down. “No. Absolutely not.”

Unfortunately, John was ready for this maneuver, which had been tried on him one too many times, and he managed to get an arm around Sherlock’s neck. A head lock. Oh this was so undignified!

John practically frog-marched him into the room, then let him go, and gave him a push. Sherlock stumbled for moment, then his natural grace took over and he straightened. Brushing his hands over his dressing gown, and throwing a look over his shoulder at John that promised retribution. Dire retribution.

John, apparently not understanding the danger he was in, just crossed his arms at his chest and smiled at him. Smiled! Oh how he hated him.

“What’s going on?” Molly, still jiggling Rosie in her arms, swaying back and forth as one did with babies, was looking back and forth between them with amusement. Rosie, unaware of any tension in the room, the lucky little bugger, reached her arms out toward John and started squirming in earnest.

“I’ll just take her then, Mols.” He came over to relieve her of the wriggling infant. Something that took a bit of doing, since Ms. Watson seemed loathe to give up her handful of Molly’s hair. That bloody hair! Once the transfer was made, there they all were again, standing in silence. The three of them. Just looking at each other. 

John cleared his throat. Nothing from Sherlock.

“Is,,,is…something wrong?” Molly’s face switched to a look of concern. It tilted toward Sherlock briefly, a thundercloud, then over to John. Lovely, safe John.

John sighed heavily, his gaze shifting to Sherlock. “No, Molly. There’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all. It’s just…Sherlock has something he wants to say to you.” Molly’s gaze shifted back to Sherlock, who was no longer a thundercloud, at least not that she could tell with his face aimed at his feet. “Sherlock, did you want to say something to me?”

So this was it, Molly thought, Sherlock was going to apologize. And then she would have to apologize. And then it would be mercifully over. Please, god, let it be over. For the first time in very long time, she wanted to get back to her life. A life where Sherlock and John would still be her dear friends. A life where she would be the best god-mother to Rosie. She would get back on that god-damned dating website and try again. She would call her girlfriends, apologize for being so absent in their lives, and set up a girl’s night out. She would get pissed and dance, and maybe even kiss someone. And she would stop being a diamond. She prompted, “Sherlock?”

Be a soldier, he thought. Apologizing was hard for Sherlock. Always had been. He supposed it always would be. He was not, after all, used to being wrong. And even when he was, technically, it was usually “for a case” and could be brushed over and forgotten quite easily. Well, mostly. He had told Mycroft that Molly Hooper was the most forgiving person he knew. And that was nothing but the truth. So why was this so hard? He had only to say the words, and this would all be over. They could forget that horrifying phone call. What he had done to Molly. What she had done to him. They could go back to the way things were. And that was all he wanted.

Sherlock raised his gaze slowly, scanning from her sensible brogues, to her smart jeans, past her truly horrible jumper, to her face. Her dear face. Her beautiful hair. He opened his mouth to give her perhaps the first truly sincere apology of his life, from the bottom of his heart, but what came out instead was, “I love you.”


	5. Weird, Awkward and Embarrassing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problem solved!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for today. Probably the last one of the evening. Please enjoy. I can't make Sherlock stop being funny, but his day of reckoning is nigh. I'm away for the weekend, so this may be the last posted chapter until Monday. I'll be scribbling away in the meantime.
> 
> Thanks for the lovely feedback. I promise there is some actual romance on the horizon.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All the mistakes are mine. I own nothing.

“So,” John Watson said to his daughter, who was looking up at him with wide eyes, “it’s going to be weird, awkward and embarrassing then. Lovely.” 

John looked back and forth between, arguably, the two best friends he had in the world. Their eyes were locked on one another. 

Molly’s color was high, her breathing fast. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Good? Or not good? Hard to tell.

Sherlock’s face had gone from a comical look of horror, to amazed surprise, in the blink of eye. He was looking at Molly, but John could tell his gaze was now actually focused inward. Assessing the situation. 

And what the hell was he still doing in the room? Though to be fair it was rather like a car wreck. Hard to look away. He lifted a thumb over his shoulder, back toward Rosie’s room, “I’ll just go then, shall I?”

Molly’s fierce “No!” came at the same moment as Sherlock’s “That would be best, John.”

Now what to do? “I…Molly…I think maybe I should leave you two to talk. Alone. Without me here. With me anywhere but here.”

Molly turned a glare on him that made him want to cover his privates. He might have actually done so, had he not been holding Rosie. Though he did move the baby slightly in front of him. Just in case.

“John. There’s no reason for you to go anywhere. Just because that…that…” She was at a loss for words.

“Wanker?” John supplied helpfully.

“Tosser!” She cried triumphantly, pointing at Sherlock. “Just because that tosser has verbal diarrhea today, and keeps insulting us, doesn’t mean you should have to leave the room.” She turned the glare on Sherlock. “Stop it!”

And, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the real Sherlock Holmes, that confident, arrogant bastard, was back from wherever the hell he’d disappeared to today. John recognized the look. He clutched Rosie to him and braced. This wouldn’t be good.

“Stop what?” he sneered.

Molly threw her hands up in the air, disgusted. “Stop saying whatever horrible thought comes into your head.”

Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown more tightly around him. His low, deep voice was menacing. “And what exactly have I said that is so horrible Molly Hooper?”

She barked out a laugh, pushing her hair back behind her ears. She pointed toward the kitchen. “You implied, not a half an hour ago, that there was something going on between John and I in that kitchen. Did you not?”

Sherlock smiled. All teeth. “I was merely asking after your comfort. You and John looked so…cozy.”

And that’s when Molly’s brain exploded. 

“You…you…you” Her rage was making her impotent. It was a glorious site. And Sherlock reveled in it.

Another deep, purring question. “And what else have I said that’s so…distasteful to you?”

Molly took a step forward, fists raised. John thought it might have been cute, if it hadn’t been quite so terrifying. “You know what you said.”

Sherlock merely lifted one brow. “Do I? I don’t recall. Why don’t you refresh my memory, Molly.”

John now began stepping carefully backwards. He should really get his child out of harm’s way.

Another step forward by Molly. “You said…”

“Yes?”

Another step. “You said…”

Sherlock’s voice was low, soothing this time instead of inciting. “Go on, enlighten me, what did I say?”

Molly stopped, dead center of the room, three paces from Sherlock, took a deep breath, and looked him smack in the eye. “You said you loved me.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands, rubbing them together thoughtfully, then he looked back up at Molly. “Yes, I did. And you found that insulting. Why?”

Molly’s face lost it’s anger and became a mask of confusion. “Why?”

“Yes. Why would that be…insulting?”

Molly’s head dropped into her hands. Was someone so brilliant, really this obtuse? Maybe he was. Maybe she actually had to explain this to him.

She sighed heavily and dropped her hands from her face. “Sherlock, it was insulting because you don’t mean it. You were going to apologize, and you felt embarrassed, and you said the first thing that popped into your head. Something you thought I wanted to hear. I get it. But…after what we’ve just been through, can you truly not understand why your saying that to me might…not be good?”

Sherlock regarded her curiously for a moment, head tilted. “Would it be good if I did mean it?”

“That’s me out.” John announced to room, and he and Rosie disappeared.

********************

And then there were two. Left there. On their own. Wonderful.

Molly wasn’t certain how to take Sherlock’s question. Was he simply curious, trying to understand the “emotional context” of the situation, or was it something else? Something else was…terrifying. Molly wasn’t sure she could deal with something else. Not after everything. But. Not a diamond. So…

“Sherlock, what are you asking me? Really?”

The air seemed to go out of both of them at once. Anger vanished. Only confusion and uncertainty left in it’s wake. They were both at a loss. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. Then cleared it again. “Perhaps we should sit down.” He gestured to the sofa. Molly looked at it, a bit like she didn’t know what it’s function was, then walked over and plopped down, right in the middle. She sat rigidly, back straight, hands folded in her lap, like she was ready to visit the Queen. So. Very uncomfortable then. Alright. Sherlock followed, and sat himself gingerly down beside her. Right beside her. Their thighs and arms brushed, and he leapt back up again, like his arse was on fire.

“And not ready for that yet!” he declared, and began pacing. 

Molly felt a bit like a client at Baker Street must have, watching the great detective pace and deduce and solve the case. However, it seemed like any conversation Sherlock was going to have at the moment was with himself, so she just sat quietly and waited.

Sherlock paced the length of the room once. Twice. Three times. Every once in a while he would glance at Molly, briefly, then his eyes would flit away, like he was afraid to look for too long. Molly waited. And waited. And waited. And felt like a great bloody fool. 

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea right now,” she began, and made to get up. Sherlock was having none of that. He simply pointed at her and said, “sit!” 

“Woof,” she replied sourly, but sat back down nonetheless. After about five minutes of pacing the room, Sherlock stopped in front of her and looked down, his gaze roaming her face, down to her hands in her lap, and her tapping feet, then back up again.

He had apparently decided it was time to talk. It was more like being on quiz show really. Rapid fire question and answer.

“Why did I find you sitting in John’s lap this morning?”

“Well…it’s hard to explain…we had been talking about Mary, and he was upset, and then I was upset, so…”

“Are you romantically interested in John Watson?”

“What!? No!”

“And he you?”

“Please be serious.”

“Answer the question, Molly.’

“No, John is definitely not romantically interested in me, Sherlock.”

“Are you currently involved in such a relationship with anyone else?”

Molly’s jaw clenched. “You know I’m not.”

“Well then, that’s that I suppose. Problem solved.”

Sherlock whirled and headed out the door into the kitchen. Molly heard the clanging of the kettle. Her head was spinning rather, and she didn’t think she quite understood what had just happened.

She rose and quietly made her way to the kitchen. Sherlock was jumping about, quite happily, putting together a tea tray. When he found the biscuits Molly had brought earlier in the day, he exclaimed, “Ginger Nuts, Hurrah!” and began piling them on a plate.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked tentatively from the door.

He whirled around, half a Ginger Nut poking out of his mouth. He downed the rest of the biscuit quickly. “Molly,” he scolded, “I was getting us tea. Do go sit down and be patient.”

“But,” she began.

He held up a long-fingered hand stopping her. “No Molly, I must insist. This is something one does, isn’t it? I must start working on these things now, mustn’t I?”

She was totally confused. “Making tea?”

Sherlock frowned at her. “Well…yes…making tea, opening jars, offering support, even when it’s boring, that sort of thing. Isn’t that what one does?”

“What one does?”

Sherlock started to get frustrated with her slowness. “Yes, Molly, what one does when one is in a relationship. Surely you should know this better than I?”


	6. Tea, Relationship, Intercourse, Boring Bits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly deserves it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so one more chapter up tonight. I was struggling with this one, and I was going to wait until Monday, but it makes more sense to leave off here.
> 
> This chapter takes a slight squishy turn at the end, and I'm still not sure I've quite captured what I wanted, but you can tell me :). Thanks to all that have commented and been so supportive!
> 
> As always, mistakes mine. Ownership, theirs.

Molly stood, blinking, in the doorway of John’s kitchen. Her mind was an utter void. Was this what what it was like to be Sherlock…buffering? She wiggled her fingers and toes. Not a stroke then. That was good. 

She heard the sounds of Sherlock finishing up the tea tray. She saw him, smiling and humming to himself, as he poured the boiling water in the pot to let the leaves steep. Definitely not an aneurysm.

Sherlock looked up and saw her, still standing in the doorway. More smiling. “Molly, please do go sit down. I want to do this properly.”

Molly turned, on auto-pilot, walked back to the sofa, and sat. If Sherlock had said, “Molly, please do a jig,” she probably would have started dancing. She put a hand to her thigh, and pinched herself. Hard. It hurt. Not a nightmare.

A moment later, Sherlock came bustling into the room, dressing gown flapping behind him, holding a beautifully prepared tea tray. He placed it, with a flourish, on the table in front of Molly. Ta Da! 

He sat himself beside her, a good meter between them this time, and began fussing with the pot. He turned a smiling face to her, before bending to his task. “Shall I pour?”

That was it.

Molly leapt from the sofa,and ran to the other side of the room, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the madman. She suddenly found her voice and practically screeched, “Sherlock Holmes, what the devil is going on here?”

Sherlock looked up from the teapot, apparently just now noticing that Molly was half-way across the room. He furrowed his brow at her. Looked at the teapot. Back to Molly. Teapot. Molly. “I’m fixing you a cup of tea?”

Molly held her hands out in front of her, like she was trying to ward him off, even though he hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. “That’s not what I mean. What exactly do think is going on here? With me. And you.” She gestured back and forth between them, as if Sherlock wouldn’t understand who she meant by “me and you.”

He appeared honestly confused. “I don’t understand what you mean, Molly.”

Of all the irritating…"You said relationship.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “In there. Right in there. You said, that’s what one does when one is in a relationship. Isn’t that what you said?”

Sherlock’s brow cleared. He gave her a look of reassurance. “Yes. Of course.” 

She was trying to keep calm. She really was. “Who is in a relationship Sherlock?” She even sounded calm. Amazing.

Sherlock laughed. He actually laughed. “We are, of course.”

He’s finally lost it, Molly thought. Or I have. Completely around the bend. “You are insane,” she told him.

“Molly,” he said fondly, and yes, more smiling, eyes crinkling, and he made to get up.

“No!” Molly kept both hands up in front of her. “You just stay right there. You sit right there Sherlock Holmes, and tell me how you’ve come to the conclusion that you and I are in some sort of relationship.”

Now he was getting peeved. “Not some sort of relationship, Molly. A Romantic Relationship.” 

Romantic Relationship was punctuated by his fingers making air quotes, and Molly thought she had never wanted so much to do someone bodily harm. “Sherlock, we are NOT in a relationship, certainly not a romantic one. I really think I would have noticed if there had been any…romance.”

He shrugged dismissively. “We’ll get to that.” The bastard went back to making tea.

Molly gritted her teeth. “Sherlock. You have never once, not in any way, given me the impression that you have any sort of romantic feelings for me.” 

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. 

"You and I both know” she laughed, “actually everyone and his bloody uncle knows, even your psychotic sister knows, how I feel about you. How I’ve felt. For years. YEARS, Sherlock. And you have made it clear to me in a number of ways, some of them not very nice, that you have absolutely no interest in me that way. You have never hugged me. You have never kissed me,” again he started to interject and was cut off, “a kiss on the cheek that you’d give your Auntie Mabel doesn’t bloody count. So, enlighten me as how the hell you think, all of sudden, with no discussion, that we are in a relationship.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stood. “May I speak now?”

Molly rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Please do.”

Sherlock brought his hands up beneath his chin, prayer-style, and began. “I have recently discovered, somewhat to my surprise, that my feelings for you are rather…well…more complex than I thought they were. It has become clear to me, after much reflection, that these feelings have taken a more…intimate turn. And, as you said, I am well aware that your feelings for me are, similarly…intimate. So, now that I have discovered this about myself and my…feelings…it only makes sense to move forward. Together. In a more…intimate fashion. Certainly adding intercourse to our relationship would only make sense. And, I assume, correctly I think, that it would make you happy. And, as we’ve known each other for several years now, we can skip over all the boring courtship, and move directly into a romantic relationship with no fuss, or any of those horrid mating rituals. I’m sure you’ll agree it will be quite a relief, given your track record.”

Sherlock punctuated this horrendous diatribe with a smile and flourish of his hands, as if to say, “How wonderful!” 

Molly honestly didn’t know what to do. On one hand, Sherlock Holmes was admitting that he had romantic feelings for her. Something that she had longed for, dreamed about, and had never even thought was a possibility. On the other hand, he was a prat of epic proportions, used the word “intimate” several times in a rather creepy manner, referred to sex as “intercourse,” and wanted to skip all the “boring” courtship. 

When Molly had dreamed of being with Sherlock, and she had done so with embarrassing regularity, she had, of course dreamed about shagging him, and what that would be like…but…she had also dreamed of romance and wooing. Stupid, silly, embarrassing things like having him serenade her with his violin, or take her dancing someplace quiet and romantic. She wanted the courtship and mating rituals, almost as much as she wanted the other.

So then, there really was only one thing to do.

“Well Sherlock, that certainly makes a lot of sense, what you’ve said.”

Sherlock beamed at her, as if she were a particularly bright pupil.

“But, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline your very kind offer of a romantic relationship. That’s really not going to work for me.”

He looked shocked. Honestly bewildered. “Why the devil not? Haven’t I just pointed out all the benefits? Was I not clear?”

“Oh no. You were very clear.” Molly smiled at him, kindly. “I’m afraid it’s still no.”

Sherlock gave Molly a look so full of hurt, that her heart contracted in her chest, and she had to lock her legs to keep herself from going to him. “Do you not…do you not feel the same way, then?”

And she couldn’t lie to him. Not about this. And for once, she didn’t feel shy or scared. “I feel the same way I always have, Sherlock. I love you.”

He was moving toward her then, not stopping until he stood right in front of her. His head tilted down, and she was looking straight into those beautiful, changeable eyes of his. “Is it because…did I not tell you I loved you? I forgot that part, didn’t I?”

Oh. God.

Molly smiled up at him. She felt the pressure tears building up behind her eyes. “You did. But that’s not why either.” 

She tentatively reached up one hand, and placed it gently in the middle of chest. She had never before touched him in such a way, and it was thrilling and scary and wonderful. And so, so not what she needed to be thinking about right now. “All the boring bits, the mating rituals I think you called them, I want those. I want everything you said, but I want those the most. I deserve it, Sherlock. And…and…if you want me…if you do love me, you’ll give me that. If you can’t…well, if you can’t, you can’t.”

All of a sudden, Molly heard Mary Watson’s cheeky voice in her head, clear as day. “Now or never, old girl. Now or never.” 

Eyes on Sherlock’s, Molly slowly slid her hand from the middle of his chest and up, up, up over his shoulder, to his nape. She exerted just a bit of pressure, telling him what she wanted, and he bent to her, his eyes curious. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, not a kiss, simply touching lightly, and then slowly rubbed her lips back and forth, back and forth, until his parted. She gave one gentle kiss to his upper lip, one to the lower, then she was moving back, hand sliding away, breaking the connection. His breathing was heavy, his gorgeous cheekbones were flushed, and he was staring at her with wide eyes. 

“You think about it. I’m going to go now. You think about it, and you let me know.” She went to take a step back, but he stilled her with one hand on her arm. His other hand came up slowly and took a lock of her hair between his fingers, rubbing. He did this for a full minute before letting his hands drop away from her and taking a step back.

Sherlock said not one word. He stood, silent, and watched her gather her things. At the door, Molly paused, turning back to him. She wanted to look at him again. His tall form. His handsome face. His beautiful eyes. Just in case. “I’ll see you, Sherlock.”

And then she was gone, leaving Sherlock alone, facing the closed door.

“How much of that did you hear?” Sherlock’s deep voice rang out loudly in the silent flat.

John emerged from the back room, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Tea, relationship, intercourse, boring bits. Yeah, most of it.”

Sherlock turned to his best friend, hands on his hips, exasperated. “Well…what am I going to do?”

John blew out a breath. “Suffer mate. You are going to suffer.”


	7. Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter! Got this mentally written on a long drive Saturday. Hope it came out as good as it sounded in my head. It's long. I couldn't really find a good place to cut, so you get it all. This chapter also contains my favorite line in the series so far. Kudos if you guess which one it is.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos. You folks are so supportive and wonderful!

Three weeks later…

The helicopter became nothing but a faint whir, and a small light, in the night sky.

Sherlock and Mycroft made their way to the waiting car. Visiting their sister was both painful and exhausting. But, for Sherlock, it was also liberating. He was slowly making a connection. When they played, he and Eurus, violin to violin, even with the security glass between them, he felt that his sister was almost…happy. And that made the burden easier to bear. His parents had decided that they should visit in teams, every other weekend, to be sure that Eurus had consistent company. This weekend had been he and Mycroft’s turn. Though his brother certainly wasn’t his preferred companion, John had offered and was politely refused for obvious reasons, Mycroft was someone who understood Sherlock in a way that differed from anyone else in his life. They weren’t friends. But they were brothers. And Sherlock had discovered that could be…comforting.

The car moved smoothly into traffic, and both men leaned their heads back against the plush seats.

They rode in companionable silence for a bit, until Sherlock became aware that his brother had been observing him from the corner of his eye for quite some time. Rude!

Sherlock sat up straight and glanced at his brother, irritated. “What?”

Mycroft tilted his head and continued regarding him, but said nothing.

Sherlock huffed and fiddled with the sleeves of his coat, “What is so fascinating about my person this evening Mycroft? Do stop staring. It’s creepy.”

Mycroft smiled thinly at him. “You are not happy, brother-mine.”

Sherlock laughed. “Really? And how did you come to that fascinating deduction? My aftershave? The cut of my jib? My shoelaces?”

Mycroft sighed, and sat up himself. “Your eyes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted at him derisively. “We have just been to visit our sister. Our sister, who will probably never be released from a high security prison, of course I…”

Mycroft cut him off. “That’s not it. Do you think you can hide things from me? Is it Dr. Hooper?”

Sherlock practically growled at him, and sat back, closing his eyes. This was Sherlock’s version of “na na, can’t hear you,” something Mycroft had seen many, many times.

“Not going well, then?”

Nothing.

“You don’t want to tell Big Brother? You know I’ll pry it out of you eventually. Best to come clean now. Perhaps I can offer some…assistance.”

Sherlock turned his back to his brother, curling his tall frame into the seat. “Unless you can, somehow, turn Molly Hooper into a rational creature, instead of a stubborn, irritating, aggravating…”

“Oh ho!” Mycroft interrupted with glee. “Giving you a hard time is she? Holding the lolly just out of reach?”

Sherlock flopped back over, sitting up, hands running through his hair, making it absolutely stand on end. He looked a bit wild…like Einstein, really. Only with dark hair. And no mustache. “Molly Hooper refuses to see reason. She wants…she’s absolutely insisting on…for the past three weeks we could have been happily engaged in…but NO!” Sherlock raised his hands, dramatically, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Instead, she wants to turn me into a leaping, prancing, muppet, dripping in roses and chocolates, spouting poetry! Well, I’m not going to do it.” With that, he crossed his arms over his chest and sat back again. He looked to Mycroft very much like a three year old, who was told there would be no pudding until he finished his veg. 

Mycroft sighed. He sighed a great deal lately. Mostly in Sherlock’s company. His little brother was becoming a trial. Someone would have to sort him out. And, of course, all the dirty work fell to him. It was wearisome, but there it was.

“Sherlock, am I to understand that you…declared yourself to Dr. Hooper?”

A pause. Then a grumbled. “Yes.”

“With actual words, Sherlock? Out loud?”

“Yes!”

“And she returned the sentiment?” Always best to verify data, without making assumptions.

“She’s always loved me,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes, and Mycroft could hear the implied, “duh!” 

Mycroft was beginning to question Molly Hooper’s sanity. She seemed like such an intelligent young woman. “So, Sherlock, what is the problem?” He held up his hand before his brother could launch into another meandering narrative. “Specifically.”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. His eyes moved to his brother’s, then down to his hands, out the window, back to his hands, window, hands. Mycroft was really beginning to lose patience with this.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up, as if he had gotten a sniff of the worst smelling bog in London. “She wants me to…court her.”

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. “Oh, dear. You do have a problem.”

Sherlock glared at him.

Mycroft thought for a moment. Well…how hard could it be, really? He eyed Sherlock’s petulant face. He had resolved to be a better brother, had he not? Distasteful as it was to…play cupid…Oh bugger, alright. “Sherlock, do you know what we need?”

“Alcohol?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft rubbed his hands together. This was his milieu. “A strategy.”

 

********************

The next afternoon…

Molly Hooper pushed a pram along the path of a sunny park. Rosie Watson, the smartest and most beautiful baby in the world, not that Molly was prejudiced, waved her little hands and cooed like the angel she was, looking wonderingly around at all the sites.

Mrs. Hudson had returned from her sister’s house to Baker Street one week ago. “She’s not much of a cook, really. Or much of a housekeeper. She does keep a wonderful bottle of sherry though. Oh how we laughed!” 

221A had been spared from most of the damage of the explosion, and, now cleaned, it was habitable. But, Mrs. Hudson had returned in the middle of the extensive renovations to 221B, and it was a bit of a trial to her. “Molly, dear, you have no idea! The noise! The dust!” So, when Molly had called to invite her out for a walk in the park with their god-daughter, she was more than happy to escape for a few hours.

Molly made a commiserating sound, taking one hand from the pram to pat her arm. “I’m sure it’s just awful. I can’t imagine how you can stand it.”

“Well, I am grateful, of course, to Mr. Holmes for taking up the expense, although we really don’t get along, he and I. And, if I’m being honest, Sherlock’s been known to make just as much of a din. The banging and shooting and screaming! You never know what you’re going to hear from up there. I suppose I should count my blessings.”

If Mrs. Hudson noticed that Molly went a bit grim at Sherlock’s name, she didn’t mention it. She didn’t mention Sherlock again at all. She waited. Until they came to a quiet and peaceful section of the park, and seated themselves on a bench, Rosie sleeping contentedly in her pram.

“So,” Mrs. Hudson said, “are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Sherlock?”

Molly, who had been lost in thought, started and looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled at her and nudged Molly’s arm with her own. “You. And Sherlock. What’s going on?”

Molly’s mouth became a bit mulish. “There’s nothing going on with me and Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Of course there is!”

Molly replied stubbornly, “No, there isn’t.”

“Molly Hooper, don’t you lie to me. And in front of our god-daughter!” She pointed to the sleeping infant. “Shame on you.”

Molly tried to play dumb. “What makes you think there’s anything going on?”

Mrs. Hudson’s look was eloquent. One brow raised. Molly had always wanted to be able to do that, but every time she tried she ended up looking constipated instead of mysterious. 

“Every time you and Sherlock are in the same room, he treats you like the bloody Queen. So polite. Polite! Our Sherlock! He hasn’t insulted you once. Not even your horrible jumpers. If that doesn’t tell me something is going on, well, I don’t know. Did you two have a little lover’s quarrel?” She nudged Molly again. 

“Sherlock and I aren’t lovers,” Molly replied, leaning forward to check on Rosie.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson replied rubbing her hands together, “he can’t make it round the wicket, then? I have some books you could borrow…and they have these wonderful little pills…”

Molly sat back and covered Mrs. Hudson’s wringing hands with her own, stopping that little speech from going…anywhere.

“No! That’s not the problem. We’re not. Sherlock and I. We haven’t. We’re not even close to that.” Molly folded her arms over her chest and looked down at her feet. “And, if Sherlock has his way, we never will be.”

Mrs. Hudson only laughed again. Even more merrily this time.

“Oh Molly, dear. Of course you will. I’m sure it’s just Sherlock being Sherlock. You know him. He has to come to things in his own way, in his own time. Why, I knew how he felt ages ago. I’ve been wondering what was taking him so long.”

Molly turned her head to the older woman. “What do you mean ages ago? He only just realized a few weeks ago that he…”

More laughing. “Oh my dear. You two. Such an odd little courtship. But, of course that’s Sherlock…odd. And you too…a little bit, lovely as you are. Why I knew at that Christmas party, you know the one where he humiliated you so horribly. It was obvious.”

Molly felt like maybe she was missing something here. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson hadn’t stopped hitting the sherry since her return from her sister’s. “You could tell that Sherlock…felt something for me…from his telling me that I had small…”

Mrs. Hudson waved this away. “It wasn’t what he said, though of course you have a lovely mouth, dear, and it’s really better to be a bit small on top, otherwise once you get older…oh the back pain, let me tell you…and then everything just falls to your knees anyway…”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Molly’s jaw was a bit stiff from clenching, “Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes. Do stop interrupting me and listen, there’s a dear. Sherlock is brilliant, isn’t he? But he’s also a man. And men are a bit like school-boys, no matter what the age. When Sherlock was just ripping you to pieces, it reminded me of a little boy who likes a girl, but he can’t say it, so he pulls her pigtails instead. It was a shock, rather. I always thought he and John…but to each his own, I say…I don’t judge…where was I? Oh, yes. After that Christmas, I knew things were headed in another direction. John didn’t see it, of course, though it was as plain as the nose on his face. John can be a little thick at times.” A pause. “So. Did you and Sherlock have fight?”

Molly blew out an exasperated breath. “Not a fight. A difference of opinion, maybe.”

Mrs. Hudson took both of Molly’s hands in hers and squeezed. “You just tell me everything.” 

********************

“So, what did he say? I’ve decided I DO want you after all, old thing, now be a good girl and let me get a leg over?” Mrs. Hudson was horrified.

“Well,” Molly told her sheepishly, “It was slightly less romantic than that.”

“Oh that boy!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, holding her fists to the sky and shaking them. “So lazy! Never wants to put a bit of effort in.” She turned to Molly. “If I told you how many times he’s asked me to make him tea or run his errands, when I’ve told him and told him I’m not his housekeeper…see if he gets any Ginger Nuts ever again, the dosser.”

Molly started to become a little afraid for Mrs. Hudson’s blood pressure, so she laid one hand on her arm, and gently lowered her straining fists with the other. “So, you see now why this isn’t going anywhere? Sherlock and me.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned into her, shoulder to shoulder, and pressed. “Of course it’s going somewhere. How that boy can take something so simple and just…tie it into knots, I’ll never understand. But that's our Sherlock. Emotional." She pressed Molly's shoulder again. "Give him time. He’ll come round.”

Molly laid her head on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. “I hope so.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned her head against Molly’s hair. “You know, while he’s dithering about, you could give him a little…push.”

Molly squinted up at her. “A push?”

Mrs. Hudson sat up, pulling Molly with her, and turned to face her, holding her thumb and forefinger up, a sliver apart. “Just a little one.”

Molly regarded her warily. “And how do I do that?”

Mrs. Hudson looked Molly up and down. “Well, we’ll have to do something about…” she fluttered her fingers…”this.”

Molly looked down at herself. She looked good today. Didn’t she? “I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Hudson pulled her up off the bench so they were standing. “A flash of ankle.” She demonstrated a coy little flick of her leg. “Bend over a bit to let him get a quick peek at the goods.” She tried to illustrate this as well, but was held up by her dodgy hip, and Molly’s laughing, “Mrs. Hudson!”

Rosie started to fuss a bit, so Mrs. Hudson picked her up out of the pram and jiggled her. “Molly, Sherlock may be brilliant, but he’s still just a man.” She smiled at Molly. “You just listen to me, and it will all work out in the end, I promise.”

********************

Later that same evening…

Sitting around the table together, they made an odd group. Sherlock and Mycroft in their perfectly pressed suits; Greg, rumpled, jacket off, tie undone, hair everywhere, just off a case; and John, with his tired eyes and sporty jumper and jeans.

Greg sipped his pint, eyeing Sherlock disgustedly over it. “That woman has been in love with you for almost ten years, and you still can’t pull her?”

Sherlock sneered back him. “Well, if it was just a matter of pulling, Gregory, I’m sure I could have managed that just fine.” He ignored John’s snort from beside him. “But we’re talking about a relationship here, not simply intercourse.”

“Intercourse!” Greg exclaimed and put both hands on top his head, looking over at John disbelievingly. 

“I can’t make him stop saying it,” John apologized. He turned to Sherlock. “If you keep saying it like that, you’ll never have it. We need to resolve this Sherlock. I can’t take much more.”

Sherlock gave him an offended look, “YOU can’t take much more?”

“Yes, Sherlock, me. I can’t take watching you and Molly…circle around each other anymore. It’s giving me nightmares. When you speak to her, if you do, you sound like…like…” he pointed across the table, “Mycroft!” 

Sherlock gasped in horror at this.

“Then when you know she’s not looking…the cow eyes, Sherlock…it’s unnatural. She’s not breaking, mate. You’re going to have to make the first move. Please. For me.”

There was a tapping on the table, and all of the men turned their eyes to Mycroft. “Gentlemen, please. My brother and I invited you to this…” he looked derisively around the pub…”establishment, because we need practical suggestions. Why don't we get to that.”

“Well,” Greg began tentatively, glancing Sherlock’s way, “I’m still not sure I understand the problem. You like Molly, she likes you…off you go.”

“Yes, thank you Inspector for that scintillating insight.” Mycroft interjected. “However, the issue is that Dr. Hooper is demanding…wooing…and Sherlock and I are at rather a loss.” Mycroft paused. “Now would be a good time to chime in.”

All Greg had was, “Wooing?”

Oh for the love of…”Courting, then” Mycroft snapped.

Greg looked more perplexed. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

“Romance!” Sherlock hollered. The three other men jumped a bit in their seats. Every eye in the pub turned to Sherlock. The bartender winked at him.

Sherlock lowered his voice. “Romance. That’s what Molly Hooper wants.”

Greg eyed him, “From you?” 

Mycroft rapped the table again. “Practical suggestions!” He cleared his throat. “Now, John, Inspector Lestrade, is there something particular you could suggest that Sherlock do, that would be considered,” he really was having a hard time getting the word past his lips, “romantic?”

John and Greg looked at each other blankly. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, “Oh, they really are no help at all. I told you we should have called Mummy.”

John straightened his shoulders, cracking his neck. “Now wait just a minute Mycroft, they didn’t call me Three Continents Watson for no reason.”

Sherlock groaned, and Greg muttered under his breath, “not this again.”

“Alright smart-arses, how about this for a practical suggestion?” John rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. “What about complimenting her?”

Greg looked to Mycroft, “Yeah. I like that. Women like compliments.”

Mycroft nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. “Very good. So, Sherlock, what…attribute of Dr. Hooper’s do you most admire? Something about her person, perhaps?” He looked to Greg and John, who nodded agreement.

Sherlock was staring into his glass miserably, wondering how he had been brought so low. “She has pretty hair,” he said.

John was getting into it now. “Yes! Yes! You’ve always said that. Good. Okay. Sherlock, say it like you’d say it to Molly. Say, Molly you have pretty hair.”

“Molly, you have pretty hair,” Sherlock repeated, sounding for all the world like he was saying, “Molly, you are covered in slugs.”

Greg threw up his hands, “Bah! That’s no good!”

Sherlock tried again. “Molly, you make the cleanest Y incision of any pathologist I know.”

John’s head fell to his hands. “Oh dear god.” He took a calming breath. “Okay. Um, maybe not the hair. Definitely not the Y incision. What else?”

“She’s got a great arse,” Greg offered. He looked over at John. “Sometimes when she’s not wearing the lab coat…”

Sherlock leapt to his feet, hands balled into fists at his side. 

Mycroft and John each grabbed an arm and pulled him back into his seat. The look Sherlock was directing at Greg was so filthy that John actually felt violated.

Greg, being Greg, was totally oblivious. “What? So I noticed.” He gestured to John. “John’s noticed too.” 

“Thanks for that,” John said to Greg, as Sherlock directed the vile gaze at him.

“Sherlock, calm down. From here on out, Molly Hooper does not exist below the waist for any of us.” Apparently that wasn’t enough. He tried again. “Below the neck?” Sherlock took a hearty swallow of his pint, then slammed it back down on the table, declaring, “She still has pretty hair.”

The drama queen! “Fine.” John spat. “From now on Molly Hooper is a bald head floating in space. Does that work for you?”

Sherlock smiled evilly at Greg. Take that. 

Mycroft was losing his patience. “Gentlemen! If we can get back to the point. Perhaps we should revisit compliments at another time.” This got a sarcastic “Hurrah!” from Sherlock,who went back to miserably sipping his pint. Mycroft wondered if he weren’t on his way to inebriation. Ah well. They didn’t need him for this. He was really no help at all. Strategy had never been one of Sherlock’s strengths. Mycroft continued.

“John, Inspector, you have both been married, yes?”

John and Greg nodded at him.

“Well? How did you do it?”

John and Greg looked at each other, then back to Mycroft. Normal people were so tiresome. How did Sherlock stand this?

“Uh..” Greg started..”Well…I met the Mrs. down the pub one night, and after a few drinks…”

“No, no,” Mycroft interrupted, hand held up before him, “that’s not what I’m asking. What sort of things did you do? Together. Recreationally.”

“He means dates.” Sherlock helpfully supplied, raising his hand for the bartender to get them another round. 

“Well, why didn’t he just say that?” Greg asked.

“Ponce.” Sherlock replied succinctly.

Mycroft turned to John. “What did you and Mrs. Watson do on your first…date?”

“Dinner and a movie,” John replied instantly.

“Boring!” declared Sherlock.

Mycroft turned to Greg. “Inspector?”

Greg had to think about it for a minute. “Um….dinner out, then Bowling.”

Sherlock dropped his head to the table. “Kill me now. Someone just put me out of my misery.”

Mycroft patted his brother’s arm. “No Sherlock, don’t fret. This is useful information. So, a usual part of a first date, as you call it, is dinner out. Lovely. A simple dinner at a restaurant should be easy enough to get you through.”

Sherlock, opened one eye to regard his brother. “Oh, yes?”

Mycroft found himself actually getting into the spirit of the thing. It was a bit of alright, after all, wasn’t it? Having a night out with the boys. “Absolutely. Half the time will be taken up chewing and swallowing. You can get away with at least two visits to the loo. And we can practice throwing in little compliments. How beautiful she looks. Her lovely table manners.”

John snorted at this. “Molly?”

Mycroft ignored him. “So, step one dinner. Now what comes next? Sherlock, is there something Dr. Hooper particularly enjoys doing for, what I believe the youngsters refer to as…fun?”

“Well…” Sherlock began slowly…”she likes to read…novels…absolute trash, but also scientific journals and magazines. Pathologist Monthly is fascinating…but reading is a rather solitary occupation, so I don’t think we could really incorporate that.” 

John and Greg looked at each other, then quickly away, hiding smiles. 

“Anything else?” Mycroft prompted.

“She does some taxidermy. Small rodents mostly. I suppose we could work on something larger, together.”

Greg shook his head at John. “They really are made for each other.”

Mycroft didn’t like the taxidermy idea, though, pronouncing it to be, ”hardly romantic, Sherlock.”

“Since you three are no help at all…let me think.” Mycroft put his fist to his chin, elbow to the table, and thought. It took only a few moments for him to come up with a brilliant idea. He was the smart one after all. “Dancing!” he exclaimed. 

John and Greg burst out laughing. 

“Molly has many wonderful qualities,” John explained, “but grace isn’t one of them.”

Greg also had many wonderful qualities, but tact wasn’t one of them. “What he means is, she’s dead clumsy.” 

Mycroft waved away this away. “Nonsense. Mummy made sure both her sons were excellent dancers. Either Sherlock or I could lead a rhino around the dance floor and make her look like Ginger Rogers. And dancing is, if I’m not mistaken, considered romantic?.”

Neither John nor Greg could argue with that. 

Mycroft was quite pleased. “So, that’s that then. Problem solved.”

Greg held a hand up this time. “Uh, not quite professor.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, “Well?” 

Greg turned to Sherlock. “The big finish? Good night kiss? Think you can handle it? Because we have a mannequin down the station. We normally use it for target practice…”

Sherlock turned to John. “Why can’t she just be reasonable? I offered her companionship, intellectual stimulation, and intercourse! And what does she want? Bloody romance.”

John sighed and leaned into Sherlock, sliding pint number four out of his reach. “Look mate, I know you’re frustrated that things didn’t just fall into place like you wanted, just because you deemed it so. But that’s not how things work between two humans in a relationship. She gives a little. You give a little. I think what Molly is asking for here, is just the tiniest bit of effort on your part, yeah? So, give me my life back. Take the girl out to dinner and bloody dancing. She’s worth it, isn’t she?”

Sherlock loathed it when John was right. Thank god it didn’t happen very often. There was only one answer. “Of course she is.”

John slapped him on the back. “Okay, then.” He sat back and lifted his glass. “To Operation Dining and Dancing Detective.”

There was a round of “cheers!” and everyone drank. The party broke up shortly afterward. John and Greg fell behind the Holmes brothers as they made their way out of the pub, and Greg pulled him aside. He waited until Sherlock and Mycroft were out of earshot. “So this whole thing. Sherlock. Turning him loose on the unsuspecting English public, and poor Molly, for an evening of romantic dining and dancing. That’s going to be a total cock-up, isn’t it?”

John watched as Mycroft and Sherlock exited the pub before turning back to Greg. “Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes planning a romantic evening? Oh yeah. Epic cock-up. I’m counting on the fact that Molly has a forgiving heart.”

Greg sighed. “She’d better, or Sherlock’s intercoursed.”


	8. Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plans go into motion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments. You've made this so much fun for me. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

One week later...

221B Baker Street was nowhere near completely renovated. But it was renovated enough, that Sherlock was moving back in. And this was a cause for celebration. At least it was according to the trio of middle-aged cupids, who pestered Sherlock night and day so he never had any peace. “Why haven’t you asked her yet Sherlock? Neither of you are getting any younger, Sherlock. Are you sure you don’t want to give that mannequin a go first, Sherlock?” 

Every morning Sherlock woke up promising himself that today would be the day. Today he would, casually and cooly, sidle up to Molly Hooper, bring her small hand to his lips, kissing it gently, and suavely ask her out for the night of dinner, dancing, and “off the charts romance” that he and Mycroft had planned. But, for some reason, any time he and Molly were at the same place, at the same time, he seemed to end up in the loo. And even Sherlock realized that asking someone out on a date through the door of the bog didn’t really set a romantic tone. So, over a pint or two, Mycroft, John and Greg had come up with the idea of throwing a housewarming party to celebrate his being back at 221B. Just a small gathering they assured him. The four of them, Mrs. Hudson and Molly. “It’s perfect,” John assured him. “A little food. A little wine. Somewhere you feel comfortable. Home-field advantage.”

“And there’s only the one loo,” Greg added. He looked sourly at Mycroft. “This would all be over with if you hadn’t forgotten to check upstairs at John’s, and lost him.”

“For the last time,” Mycroft snapped, “I didn’t lose him. How was I to know he’d jump out a second story window?”

So here they were. Four grown men. Gathered in Sherlock’s bedroom, like teenage girls before a Prom.

Sherlock stood stiffly in the middle of the room, as the three other men critiqued his outfit and toilette. Sherlock was wearing one of his best dark suits, overkill in his opinion, but Mycroft had insisted. “Dress the part to be the part!” This had been paired with a royal blue shirt, picked out by John. “Oh yeah, really makes your eyes pop. God, they look almost teal in this light. Molly doesn’t stand a chance.” Greg had sniffed his way through several bottles of Sherlock’s cologne, before finally handing him one, stating, “That’s the one. Makes ME want to shag you.”

Sherlock felt a bit like a painted tart, but he did appreciate his friends and brother trying to bolster his confidence. From the moment he had realized his true feelings for Molly Hooper, it had been one humiliating failure after another, and for a man with an ego the size of Sherlock’s, well, it was hard to swallow. He needed a win.

Mycroft checked his pocket-watch. “Fifteen minutes. Are we all clear on our duties? John?”

John snapped to attention. “I’m in charge of Sherlock. Go light on the alcohol. Follow him to the loo. Keep him in play until Greg makes his move.”

“Correct,” nodded Mycroft. “Greg?”

“Yeah. I’m on Molly. After I can get approximately two glasses of wine down her, I maneuver her to the sofa, and make sure she sits next to Sherlock. I keep her away from Mrs. Hudson, who will attempt to monopolize her company, and keep us from attaining our goal.”

Mycroft clapped his hands. “Perfect.” He turned to Sherlock, “And you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m to keep my head in the game. I’m to keep as far away from the loo as possible. If I have to go, I’m to take John with me, so I won’t be tempted to jump out the window. I’m to concentrate on keeping my mind blank until Greg brings Molly to me. Once she’s seated, I’m to immediately tell her how pretty she looks, even if she doesn’t, and then tell her that I’ve been thinking that she was….right….all along, and there’s nothing I’d like better than to take her out for a splendid evening of dinner and dancing, if she’ll have me.” Mycroft had made him repeat that little speech, authored by Mycroft, approximately fifty times the evening before, so he was sure to get it perfectly right. He glanced over to Mycroft to see how he’d done. Mycroft looked very pleased. Oh good. He’d done well. Probably not the time to confess to the whirling, churning pit that was his stomach. 

********************

At the same time, downstairs in 221A…

Molly Hooper regarded her reflection in Mrs. Hudson’s full-length mirror and grimaced. She didn’t think she could go through with this.

“I don’t think I can go through with this,” she said to the woman herself, who was standing behind her, rubbing her hands together in glee.

“What?! Of course you can. You look perfect!” She beamed at Molly.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Molly said calmly, “I look like a slag.” She pointed to her reflection.

Molly’s lovely hair had been curled, teased and sprayed. There was no other word for it than…huge. Her eyes were lined heavily in kohl, her cheeks reddened by twin spots of rouge.

Two days ago Mrs. Hudson had instructed Molly to bring over her best pair of jeans. “You just leave them with me, and never you mind.” Molly had decided to humor her. Mrs. Hudson, she was coming to realize, was the most insanely stubborn person she had ever met in her life. The woman looked sugar spun, but she was a bull-dog of epic proportions. Once she got an idea in her head, and was convinced she was right, you had just better go along, or else. So, Molly was going along, even though she knew it would probably end in humiliation. But, back to the jeans. Molly had been certain she would arrive here tonight to find them bedazzled to within an inch of their lives, but no. Mrs. Hudson had washed them in the hottest water imaginable, then dried them at approximately the temperature of the sun. This, of course, caused them to shrink, at least two sizes. Mrs. Hudson had pried her into them anyway. “You’re arse looks fantastic! Oh if that doesn’t make Sherlock want to beat the bishop, I don’t know what will. He’s an arse-man. I can always tell these things.” 

Up top, a form fitting (to the extreme) top, that plunged dangerously at the neckline. Molly had flatly refused the push-up bra, even though Mrs. Hudson has accused her of “not doing your part here, Molly, I can’t do everything, can I?” but still felt as though she would have to stand up very straight to keep from flashing the room. On her feet were platform wedged sandals that Molly thought she MIGHT have be able to walk in, if she had been given more than ten bloody minutes to practice. 

She felt like an idiot, and was trussed up to be presented for carving like a Christmas Goose, but, being Molly, she didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Hudson’s feelings. She had gone to an awful lot of trouble, and, after all, Molly had spent almost the last decade being embarrassed by, and in front of, Sherlock Holmes. What was one more ghastly humiliation? Nothing was going right anyway. He hadn’t made one attempt to reach out to her. Though, Molly did wonder if he wasn't a bit under the weather. There was that stomach bug going around, and he was spending an awful lot of time in the loo. 

“Please just trust me, Molly dear,” Mrs. Hudson said patiently, though Molly could tell she was a bit exasperated with her. “You do what I told you, and when you leave here tonight, Sherlock Holmes will be absolutely gagging for it.”

Molly considered her reflection. Gagging, maybe. Gagging for it? Not so sure. But what could she do? “Okay.”

********************

The men placed themselves carefully around the room according to Mycroft’s strategy. Sherlock was seated on the couch, making it difficult for him to get a head start on them in any kind of foot-race, despite his superior height and length of leg. John was stationed behind Sherlock, slightly to the left, blocking his route to the loo. Greg was at the kitchen doors, clutching two glasses of wine, ready to get one into Molly Hooper’s hands and down her throat as quickly and efficiently as possible. Mycroft would answer the door, and greet the guests, then fall back, better to observe the entire chessboard, so he could leap in if things started to go pear-shaped.

There was a knock on the door. “Curtain!” announced Mycroft advancing toward the door. Sherlock began to rise from the sofa. He was stopped by John’s hand on his arm, keeping him in place. “Better not mate. You’ll head for the door, then be making a beeline for the loo before you know it. I don’t want to have to tackle you again.”

As this was sound advice, Sherlock sat back down.

Mycroft swung the door open with a flourish. “Good evening ladies,” he began, “please do come in.” 

Mrs. Hudson entered, leaving Molly standing in the doorway tottering slightly on her heels. It had been touch and go getting up the stairs. Her jeans were so tight that she could barely bend her knees, and the new shoes were not only high, they were pinchy.

Mrs. Hudson immediately grabbed both wineglasses from Greg. “Oooooh wine! Lovely!”

Mycroft, in the meantime, was openly gaping at Dr. Molly Hooper. He had never seen such a…display. She was she dressed like a common strumpet, and looked openly miserable and embarrassed by that fact. This was all that Hudson woman’s doing. She was always sticking her great nose in and ruining all of Mycroft’s plans. Now what? He’d have to get her out of here. One look at her would have Sherlock locked in the bog and out the window in under five seconds. 

Mycroft turned to the room, keeping Molly behind him, using his much taller frame to hide as much of her as possible. “Oh dear! Dr. Hooper tells me she’s suddenly not feeling well. What a shame! I shall escort her home, then return. Carry on!” He began backing toward the door, forcing Molly back as well.

“What?!” Screeched Mrs. Hudson. “What are you talking about? She’s perfectly fine.” She advanced on Mycroft and began trying to pull Molly out from behind him, while Mycroft wriggled and feigned left then right to keep Molly from view. John and Greg stood frozen, watching the odd little dance they were doing. Sherlock allowed this to continue to a few moments, until Mrs. Hudson started to give Mycroft an indian burn, and then he really had to intercede.

He jumped up from his seat and bellowed. “What the devil is wrong with you two? Stop it. Mrs. Hudson, unhand my brother. Molly, come out from behind there.” Then softer, “Please.”

Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft were frozen in a stand-off. Two of her hands grasping one of his forearms. His free hand holding his umbrella aloft, as if he would strike her with it.

Molly slunk out from behind Mycroft, miserably. She moved gingerly, as her tight shoes, top and jeans didn’t allow much freedom of movement. Her face was partially covered by her tremendous hair, which was a blessing, as it looked to be painted with as much makeup as a clown.

Mrs. Hudson, oblivious to Molly’s humiliation, chirped. “Doesn’t she look lovely! Do a little turn, Molly. Give them the whole picture.”

Molly’s lips all of a sudden quirked up in a wry smile. She looked at Sherlock and shrugged. Then she turned in a slow circle, arms held out, massive hair bobbing. When Sherlock got a look at the rear view, he thought for a moment that he had swallowed his tongue. This proved not to be the case, however, when he suddenly turned to John and Greg and yelled, “Molly Hooper is a bald head floating in space!” At this, Greg and John’s gazes darted away, guiltily. Sherlock jerked his head toward Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, who had now devolved into slapping at each other. They were gently separated and moved to opposite corners of the room to cool off. 

Once Molly had completed her circle, she was left facing Sherlock Holmes, who, of course he did, looked like he had just stepped off a runway. And, oh god that shirt made his eyes look almost teal! So unfair, especially when she knew she looked like she had just stepped off a street corner. 

They locked eyes. Molly had very pretty eyes, even ringed with enough kohl to make her look like a raccoon. And right now, those pretty eyes had a look of defeat in them that tore at Sherlock’s heart. “Molly Hooper. You make the cleanest Y incision of any pathologist I know!” And that came out of nowhere. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say, was it?

“Oh bugger, he’s going to blow,” Greg said. John began inching toward the loo, Greg to the door.

At this comment, Molly blushed crimson. “You’ve never said that to me that before.” Her eyes suddenly lit up, and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Her lashes fluttered. Coyly.

“You have got to be kidding me,” whispered John.

Sherlock looked down at his feet. “I’ve thought it many, many times.” When his gaze rose, the look he gave her could only be described as...scorching.

Molly’s breathing became rapid. “You should have told me.”

Sherlock began advancing toward her. “I know I should have.” He reached out and took both of her hands gently in his, and then all in a rush…“Molly-Hooper-there’s nothing-I’d-like-better-than-to-take-you-out-for-a-splendid-evening-of-dinner-and-dancing.” Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock finished, “If you’ll have me.”

Molly’s smile was huge and dimpled. Even with the makeup cracking on her cheeks, Sherlock thought she looked beautiful. “That would be lovely.”

“I knew it!” Mrs. Hudson cried. “Gagging for it.”


	9. Phase One:  Complete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The devil is in the details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the party! Bit of this, bit of that, bit of the other.
> 
> Thanks again to all of you who have commented and left kudos. Now we ramp up to the big date.
> 
> Any mistakes are my own. I own nothing.

Once the deed was done, the atmosphere at 221B became…celebratory.

Sherlock was allowed to go to the loo. Alone. For fifteen minutes of quiet reflection.

At Molly’s insistence, and against the protestations of Mrs. Hudson, John escorted (read half-carried) Molly downstairs to 221A to put herself back into some semblance of order. “Oh Molly! Well, as you like, but I must say, I don’t understand you girls today, and all this natural beauty nonsense. Men do like it when you put in a bit of effort. You probably didn’t even do a wax, did you? I know the nicest Middle Eastern couple who own a shop. They do your brows and your nethers for a song. Well, go on, then. I suppose it’s a case of leading a horse to water, but not being able to cross the bridge when you come to it.” Since there was no possible response to this, Molly and John set off for 221A.

John laughed at her all the way down the stairs and into the flat. “I don’t know how she can complain about me not putting in any effort, John, honestly,” Molly said as she lurched like Frankenstein’s monster across Mrs. Hudson’s fussy front parlor. “I had to absolutely slather myself with kitchen oil to get these blasted jeans on. How she could think this…this getup would make me more attractive to Sherlock…why did I ever let her talk me into this?”

John was absolutely snorting, he was laughing so hard, the git. Was that how she sounded? Disgusting! “John, stop laughing at me.”

John, who was bent over, hands to his knees, hooting, finally rose up at and looked at her. This almost started him off again, but he manfully contained it to just a few giggles.

“Oh Molly, you are an idiot. You don’t think she knew exactly what she was doing?”

Molly was taken aback by this…this…horrific thought. “What?”

“That..that…” John gestured to her outfit, hair and clothes, but was at a loss for how to describe it. “She wasn’t trying to make you more attractive to Sherlock. She was putting you in a position to be humiliated, so that Mr. Poncy Cheekbones Swishy-Coat would have to come to your rescue. Brilliant, really. Diabolical, but brilliant.”

“You don’t really think…”

“Oh I do. I definitely do. That woman is both amazing and as mad as a hatter. She could give Mycroft a run for his money. Good thing they don’t get along, or they’d be teaming up to take over the world, you mark me.”

Once Molly was washed up, brushed out and re-dressed in her own comfortable slacks and bright jumper, she and John made their way back up to 221B.

“Now, remember,” John told Molly before they rejoined their friends, “don’t let on that I figured her out. I like her to think I’m a bit thick. Gives me an advantage.”

Back in 221B, there was no sign of Sherlock, but Greg and Mrs. Hudson were gayly slogging back wine, and had put on some music. 

Mrs. Hudson decided to show Greg one of the routines from her burlesque days. This was agreed to, only after obtaining her sworn promise that no clothing would be removed. “We wouldn’t want to shock Mr. Holmes now, would we?” Mrs. Hudson said, throwing a shark-like smile Mycroft's way. “He’s ever so Victorian!” 

Mrs. Hudson was currently teaching Greg a move she called the “rumpelty-bump.” A gyration which, according to her, always brought the house down. “Oh I should probably teach this to you too, Molly dear, but it’s probably best to wait a bit. We don’t want Sherlock breaking a leg right out of the gate, now do we?”

Mycroft was sitting alone on the sofa, sipping a cup of tea, silently congratulating himself, and alternatively checking his phone for messages. When he looked up to see Molly making her way across the room to him, he sighed in relief. As much as he esteemed her, he didn’t think he cared to see any more of Dr. Hooper’s person than he already had this evening. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock turned into an absolute cave dweller any time someone so much as turned an eye to the woman.

“Better?” She asked, arms held out.

“You look just as you ought…that is to say, like the lovely young woman you are Molly. Why you let that old harridan…”

“She was just trying to help, Mycroft,” Molly said as she seated herself beside him. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. And it all came right in the end.”

Mycroft sighed. He supposed it did. Though he hated sharing even a bit of the credit with that awful Hudson female. Well, she might have stuck her great nose into this, but she would take no credit for the evening of romance that Dr. Hooper would be treated to. That was all him. And John. And a bit of Greg. Hardly any Sherlock at all really. He was turning into such a stick in the mud.

“Well. My brother finally managed to come up to scratch. I’m very happy for you both. You are…pleased?”

Molly began fixing herself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. She looked up to Mycroft with a sweet smile. “Of course.”

“And you’re sure…about Sherlock? Your feelings there are quite genuine?”

Molly laughed outright at this. “Mycroft Holmes! Are you asking me my intentions toward your little brother?”

“What? No! Well, maybe a bit. Sherlock is…well, he’s Sherlock, isn’t he? Always been difficult. Too smart for his own good. That doesn’t…bother you?” Mycroft looked at bit nervously at her.

Molly tilted her head and regarded him curiously. “Why would it bother me?”

“Sherlock is not what one would call an open book, is he? He’s secretive. He’s not used to emotional displays. Not…affectionate as a rule. Rude most of the time. Always thinks he’s right. I’m simply not quite sure what a woman of substance, such as yourself, would really see in him.”

Molly's gaze focused to laser-sharpness. It made him feel a bit like he was lying on her table, ready for that “clean Y incision” that Sherlock kept nattering on about.

“Mycroft…” she began slowly.

Mycroft loosened his tie a bit. Was it hot in here? Probably the tea. 

He set the cup down.

“Hmmmm?” He didn’t look at her. Not even a bit.

“Is…is there…someone? Someone you’re…interested in?”

Mycroft sat straight, pokering up before Molly’s eye. Ah, so The British Government was back, was he?

“Are you referring to some sort of potential…paramour?” He scoffed. “That’s hardly my area Molly. Simply because you and Sherlock are engaged in…whatever…doesn’t mean that I…”

“I think you’re lovely.” Molly stated.

This sentiment was so foreign to Mycroft’s lexicon of experience that for a moment it was like she was speaking in a language he didn’t understand. “Excuse me?”

“You’re handsome, brilliant, you have a very interesting job, even though I don’t really know what it is you actually do. You can be very witty when you want to, and you love your family, even though you try and hide it. You’re can also be very scary and cross, but then I’m told some women like that sort of thing. If you were a bit older, you’d really be Mrs. Hudson’s bag of crisps.”

That statement was met by a look of horrified nausea that made Molly giggle.

“Whoever…she?...is, if you’re hesitating to act on it because you doubt that someone could feel that way about you….don’t. I’m a perfect example of a fairly normal woman, who is mad for a cold, uptight, repressed, egomaniac, with horrid social skills.”

Mycroft smiled wryly. “And that’s your type, is it?”

“Apparently” Molly replied, put her tea aside, and shocked Mycroft by throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a tight squeeze. He returned the gesture, gingerly, patting her back lightly with his hands. “Yes, yes. Thank you. Very good.” 

“Molly!”

Molly and Mycroft jumped, bumping heads as they pulled apart.

Sherlock was standing behind the sofa, positively looming over them. He was scowling at Molly, and this look turned to an absolute sneer when his gaze moved to consider his brother.

“Why is it, Molly,” Sherlock began, his voice whiskey smooth, his eyes sliding away from his brother’s reddening face, back to Molly who was rubbing at her forehead. “that lately, each time I come upon you, it is to find you in some sort of…clinch…with every man you know?”

Molly considered this as she picked her teacup back up. As much as Sherlock had been able to discomfort her in the past, she wasn’t afraid of his…glowering. Once you’ve seen someone moaning, shaking and heaving up their toenails from withdrawal, it was hard to find them particularly scary anymore. She held that image of him fixed in her mind, so as not to get distracted by the velvety tone of his voice.

“Sherlock, please don’t exaggerate.” Molly scoffed. “It’s hardly every man I know.” She looked around the room. “Well, not Greg at least.”

“Greg!” spat Sherlock disgustedly, muttering “he’d like that, wouldn’t he?” He sent an evil scowl Greg’s way.

Greg was oblivious to this, however, as he was across the room with Mrs. Hudson, and looked to be executing a perfect series of “rumpelty-bumps.” 

“Now there’s a goer!” Mrs. Hudson shouted across the room, pointing at Greg. Greg shot Molly, Sherlock and Mycroft a big smile, gave them two thumbs up, and kept on…bumping.

Sherlock turned back to the pair on the couch. “Well you two certainly looked as thick as thieves, didn’t you?” He gaze shot between them, focusing his sharp eyes on Mycroft. Neither of them said anything. “Not going to tell old Sherlock what you were talking about? Do you think it was wise Mycroft? Whispering in Molly’s ear? When you know how…susceptible she is to me?”

Mycroft stood up suddenly. “I’m going to the loo,” he announced, and stalked off.

“Oh good, I thought he’d never leave.” In a move reminiscent of Errol Flynn, Sherlock vaulted over the couch, landing with a bounce and an elegant cross of his legs, right next to Molly. That this jostled her tea cup and caused hot liquid to splash into her lap, didn’t seem to register. “Oh Dear!,” Molly exclaimed and began trying to sop up the liquid with a napkin.

“Never mind that now, Molly,” Sherlock said irritably, slapping at her hands. “Those slacks are horrible in any case. Do us all a favor and bin them. Throw that jumper in after them and we’ll have a parade.”

Molly, who for the past fifteen minutes had been pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming that she had actual date with Sherlock Holmes, was now reminded that reality sometimes differs a great deal from fantasy, and that she spent about 20 percent of her time thinking about shagging him rotten, and 80 percent fantasizing about bashing him over the head with something heavy. It could even be closer to 90/10. But he had made a real effort tonight, and she supposed so should she do. “I’m sorry Sherlock, you wanted to talk?”

Sherlock took her hands in his and turned her to him. He slid closer to her on the sofa, until their knees were touching. Then he leaned in, until they were face-to-face, noses inches apart.

“Romance!” This was apparently a declarative statement.

Molly was at a bit of a loss. “Ummmm….”

His voice dropped an octive. “That was what you wanted, was it not, Molly Hooper? Romance?” He let go of her hands for a moment to punctuate the word Romance with air quotes. 

“Well…”

Sherlock cut her off, “And that is what you shall have! On our date.” He leaned in. Now their noses were actually touching. Molly went a bit cross-eyed trying to look him in eye. “Our Romantic date,” he clarified.

“Ooookay.” Molly leaned back a few inches. “What shall we do?”

Sherlock waved her off. “Oh it’s all planned. Has been for ages.” 

Molly brightened at this. How sweet. “You’ve been planning it for ages?”

“Of course! Well, Mycroft helped a bit. And John. Greg was rubbish though.”

Molly looked around confused. Greg and Mycroft were now huddled together, and Greg looked to be pantomiming some sort of….sporting activity… bowling? He seemed to be attempting to explain a move to a perplexed looking Mycroft.

John was being held captive by Mrs. Hudson and her voracious appetite for dance, though it looked like she had left off burlesque, and had moved on to some sort of cross between the pogo and the mashed potato.

“So you and Mycroft and John and Greg planned our date?” Sherlock opened his mouth, but Molly cut him off, “Our Romantic date?”

Sherlock smiled at her, pleased. He slid closer again. “We’ll be going to the finest, most Romantic restaurant in London, or at least the most expensive.”

“Sherlock I don’t need…” she began.

“Bup, bup, bup!” Sherlock placed a long index finger to her lips, silencing her. “Then a lovely club….for Romantic dancing! Not that upright coitus that passes for dancing today. Proper dancing. Cheek to cheek!” The excited grin that split his face, causing his eyes to crinkle, made Molly want to positively lick him all over. 

“That’s wonderful, Sherlock. It sounds like great fun!”

“Marvelous! Saturday next, then? That is, I believe, traditionally….date night?”

“Perfect.” Molly agreed.

“Well then,” Sherlock stood, clapping his hands, “you’d better run along.”

What the…”Excuse me?” 

“Now that we have completed phase one, there’s much to do Molly, I don’t have time to be gadding about drinking tea.”

“Phase one? But you said you had it all planned.”

“I do, I do. Generally. But now we must move on to specifics, mustn’t we? The details, Molly! The devil is in the details. And I’ll lose a whole evening of planning Wednesday because of the bowling league. I must have time to revise my charts.”

“Your charts?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Never mind. Makes it seem less Romantic. Mycroft or John will see you out. Until next Saturday…mon amour!” With this he grabbed her head, dropped a brief kiss to her hair, vaulted back over the couch, and was gone.


	10. Phase Two:  Complete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week before the big date there are some second thoughts, and a bit more plotting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter! Last one before the big date. A bit of the funny. A little serious. Molly is awesome. Mycroft is cross. Greg is Greg. Anthea makes an appearance.
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful comments. This has been so much fun for me.
> 
> Once again, all mistakes are mine. I own nothing but my laptop and my sense of humor.

It was a long week for both Molly and Sherlock.

Molly, of course, had to work, so she spent most of her days distracted from thoughts of the upcoming Romantic date. However, she found herself blocking it from her mind even during her free time, and she didn’t really know why. Once the initial glow of “he asked me, he finally asked me,” had faded, she felt a bit…worried. She knew she had told Sherlock that she wanted the courtship and mating rituals, but, upon reflection, she wondered if she had been fair to him.

All she had ever wanted was for she and Sherlock to be together. She had fantasized about music and romance and wooing, and now the time was nigh, so why did she feel so downright …glum? Not as if the upcoming evening was something wonderful to look forward to, but as if it was something that would have to be endured, gotten over with. Oh she didn’t understand herself! It was just that everything about this “Romantic date” felt so…forced.

It didn’t help that she saw very little of Sherlock during the week, as he had a case,“it could be an eight, Molly!” and was busy planning the details of their evening, “John let Rosie get into my paperwork. Now everything is all backwards! I had to redo the spreadsheet entirely.” She also suspected that Mycroft was keeping him busy and away from her, lest he say something…Sherlockian…and she changed her mind.

He did text her every day though, and they were not like his texts of old, which consisted mainly of messages such as “bring thumbs and biscuits,” or “did you check the rectal cavity?”

These texts were…odd. Even for Sherlock. Things like, “romance level looking high,” which she supposed meant that he was working on his charts, or “which word do you prefer, alluring or exquisite?” Then Wednesday night, perplexingly,“Mycroft bowled a four-bagger!” But this was quickly followed by, “sorry – meant for Mummy not Molly.”

Over the course of a few days, three dead rodents appeared on her doorstep, all with cute little black ribbons tied around their necks. It was very sweet, as they were in perfect condition, not a mark on them! But then one of her neighbors, the nosey-parker, had gotten the wind up and called the police. Molly ended up at the Station, and finally had to send out an SOS to Greg, to finally make the officers understand that the mice were not a threat against her life, but rather a…mating call.  

“That was all Sherlock,” Greg assured her, as he walked her out. “But don’t tell Mycroft. He gets cross if Sherlock deviates from what’s on the spreadsheet.”

Molly had worked herself into such a state of anxiety about the date that, by Thursday, she was actually thinking about calling Sherlock and begging off. Only the knowledge of how much Sherlock would be hurt by this, and the awareness that the whole thing was her own stupid fault, kept her from doing so. 

How could she now, after everything, take back what she had said about “the boring bits?” He would be furious. And, he would never let her forget that she was wrong, and, worse, that he was right!

But oh…how she wished she had agreed to the “intimacy and intercourse” that Sherlock had originally proposed. 

There was really only one thing to do. Molly was going to paste a gormless smile on her face, and go along with whatever horror show those four idiots had dreamt up, and called Romance. Sherlock Holmes was tying himself up in knots trying to give her what she had asked for. It was probably going to be a total cock-up. But. Oh how she love, love, loved the blighter! She had started this fiasco, and she was going to take her medicine like a good girl, and not complain.

********************

Thursday Evening

“Repeat it again.” 

John and Greg groaned. John, Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock were gathered around John’s kitchen table, drinking lager and going through the last points of “pre-production,” as Mycroft referred to it. 

“Does he really have to?” Greg grumbled. “I’m hearing it in my sleep.”

“Yes, he has to, Greg,” replied Mycroft snippily. “We must fill his mind with the correct messaging, or he’ll be spouting rubbish like clean Y incision all night.” 

“Well it worked, didn’t it?” John pointed out, and got up to fetch more beer.

“That was pure luck,” snapped Mycroft. “Dr. Hooper’s defenses were down thanks to that interfering old bizzum. Can’t count on lightening striking twice.”

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “Well, go on.”

Sherlock sighed and wondered when he had lost control over his own life. All he had wanted was to spend time with Molly Hooper. To look at her face. Maybe to touch her hair again, and maybe even other parts of her that he wasn’t quite ready to think about yet. Molly had said she wanted the courtship and mating rituals, but was this what she had meant? She said she wanted HIM. And this Romantic farce wasn’t him. Still, he knew he owed it to her follow through with this ghastly event they were planning. But honestly, his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Even his charts were looking were looking a bit…droopy. And the diorama was rubbish.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft prompted. Mycroft was getting more and more cross as the days went by. Thank god he hadn’t found out about the mice. That might have brought on apoplexy. 

“Alluring, beauteous, beguiling, bewitching, comely, delightful, divine, elegant, exquisite, foxy, gorgeous, lovely, ravishing, stunning.”

Mycroft had his eyes closed, nodding, as Sherlock recited. “One more time.”

“Alluring, beauteous, beguiling, bewitching, comely, delightful, divine, elegant, exquisite, foxy, gorgeous, lovely, ravishing, stunning.”

“Excellent!” Mycroft’s eyes popped open. "Do try to use them all, though perhaps not in alphabetical order.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Er, I dunno about foxy,” Greg said. “Not sure anyone uses that one anymore.”

“Of course they do,” insisted Mycroft, turning to Sherlock “I got it right out of the dictionary of urban slang. Always good to throw in some vernacular. We don’t want Dr. Hooper to think you're not with it.”

“Oh yeah,” said John, as he made his way back to the table with fresh bottles. “Perish the thought. You left out groovy though. The kids really dig that one.”

Mycroft didn’t get the joke. “Only in a pinch.”

John nudged Sherlock, who was looking rather tired and…glum. “You okay, mate?”

Sherlock perked himself up a bit at this, and took a sip of lager. “I'm fine John. Just…can’t wait for Saturday. Really looking forward to it.”

John eyed him. “Seriously Sherlock, I still think maybe…all this…fuss…maybe it’s too much. I’ve told you what I think. You should just be yourself. That’s what Molly likes. You. Forget all this other rubbish and just be Sherlock.”

Mycroft was incensed. “That’s the worst advise I’ve ever heard, John! And you, his best friend! Since when has Sherlock being Sherlock ever helped a situation? No.” He thumped the table. “We must stick to the plan. Romance. Dancing. Compliments. We have the timeline all worked out. The intervals. The ratios. Everything is quite in place. Please don’t be encouraging Sherlock to deviate now. I can’t ask Anthea to revise that power point one more time. She’ll quit!”

Greg took a long swallow his beer. “You know, John, I have to go with Mike on this one. Since when has a first date been about being yourself? It’s about selling.”

“Selling?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, you know, selling. You’re trying to get her to buy. You’re selling yourself.”

“I believe that’s politely referred to as prostitution, Greg,” John pointed out.

“Nah,” Greg waved him away. He held his bottle aloft with one hand and pointed his index finger at Sherlock. “Selling! Intercourse is for closers. Remember that.”

John looked at him with amusement. “I thought we were discouraging the use of that word”

Greg smiled and took another swallow.“Oh, I dunno. Guess it kinda grew on me. Tried it down the pub the other night.” 

John barked out a laugh. “How’d that work out for you?”

Greg shrugged. “Got slapped. Then, later on, I tried out a few rumpelty-bumps.”

“Oh lord,” Mycroft groaned, “not that again.”

“Hey, don’t knock it.” He gave them all a huge grin. “I closed.”

 

********************

Friday Evening

Molly opened her door to find Mycroft Holmes once again standing on her threshold. “Mycroft!” she exclaimed “What are you doing here?” She looked beyond Mycroft to see a silent young woman, standing just behind and to the left of him, juggling several garment bags and a towering stack of shoe-boxes.”

“Completing phase two, Molly, please step aside.” He brushed right past her, into her front room, his assistant staggering behind him under the weight of her burdens. This woman said not a word to Molly, and headed further into her flat, in the direction of her bedroom.

“What?” Molly started, but was arrested by the site of Toby, slithering around Mycroft’s ankles, leaving copious amounts of his shaggy fur behind on Mycroft’s perfectly pressed cuffs. Mycroft looked down at the cat, disdainfully, then back up at Molly. “Please contain this…beast.”

Molly leapt forward and grabbed Toby, clutching him to her chest, as if afraid Mycroft might eat him.

“What are you doing here? What’s phase two? Who is that woman, and why is she in my bedroom? How does she know where my bedroom is?”

Mycroft lifted a hand. “Her name is Anthea. She works for me, doing…many different things. But, tonight she is here to help us prepare an outfit for your date with Sherlock. I thought a woman’s touch would be appropriate.” 

Unbelievable! She wasn’t a doll to be painted and spiffed up and put on display. She was a grown woman, and she could pick out her own damned dress, Mycroft Holmes and his plotting be damned.

“I’ve already…I am perfectly capable of…”

Anthea came bustling back into the room, holding aloft the dress that Molly had carefully chosen and laid out for tomorrow. She presented it to Mycroft for his appraisal 

It was so pretty! A lovely apricot color, and it had the most fetching little bow that hung just over her…

“What in the name of Churchill’s anus is that!?” Mycroft was absolutely skewering Molly with his gaze.

“It’s my dress for tomorrow, and it’s lovely!” Molly said defensively.

“It’s a tangerine nightmare!” Mycroft returned. Oh dear lord. He was having chest pains. All of his carefully constructed plans, falling at his feet, because of a citron abomination? No!

“It’s apricot!” Molly insisted. 

Anthea raised both her eyebrows at Mycroft, tipping her head toward Molly. What had she advised him? Oh, yes. Don’t malign her taste, no matter how horrendous it was. He was finding that women, not matter how well-educated, were very difficult creatures.

Mycroft took in a long, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. The pains in his chest receded and he felt a bit of serenity returning. He waved Anthea off, and she silently retreated to the bedroom. Why couldn’t everyone in his life resign themselves to their duties in such a sanguine manner?. “I apologize Molly. I certainly didn’t mean to insult you. I confess to being under a bit of strain at the moment, and something of a time constraint. He gestured toward the sofa. “Shall we sit?”

Molly still wasn’t happy, but she knew Mycroft was trying to help…in his own megalomaniacal way. She dropped Toby, who took off, the coward, and sat herself on the sofa, jaw clenched, arms crossed.

Oh dear. This was the look that Sherlock had described to him as Molly being “cheesed off.” He recognized the facial cues. He would have to be delicate about this. If her brow furrowed just a half an inch more, she would be at “rabid,” and, at that level of ire, Sherlock told him he would most likely have to duck, cover his privates and run for it.   Very delicate then. He adopted a placating tone.

“Molly, I certainly didn’t mean to disparage your…ensemble. That wasn’t what I meant at all. It’s very…vibrant.”

Molly didn’t look like she was buying it. “Oh, you really think so?”

Mycroft was itching to check his pocket watch. They were dreadfully behind schedule. Hopefully John and Greg were keeping up their end, though Mycroft was never convinced any task could be successfully completed without his assistance. And now Molly Hooper was turning out to be just as mulish as Sherlock. Were they trying to ruin this for him?

Better to hurry this along. If he had been better rested he would have remembered to allot an extra fifteen minutes for cajoling, but bowling night had kept him up later then he’d planned, though he had acquitted himself rather well, if he did say so himself. However, now his whole timeline was off, and he would have to beg Anthea revise the powerpoint.

Well, in for a penny…How to play it, though? Go for the soft-underbelly? That would be quickest.

“Oh, absolutely Molly! Satsumas are my favorite, you know. It’s just that…well…the restaurant Sherlock will be taking you to…it’s quite exclusive. Very hard to get a reservation. I had to call in a few favors…pull some…strings.”

One thing he knew about Molly Hooper was…she didn’t want to be a bother.

“Oh! I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother?” Ah, there it was. The look of contrition. Carefully now…

“Of course not Molly. It was the least I could do. Sherlock has been just…starry-eyed since you agreed to keep company with him.” Laying it on too thick?

“Has he?” A beatific smile. 

God he was good. Take that Hudson.

“Over the moon! And, even though I know how much Sherlock treasures your… singular style of dress, despite his little jokes, he’s so much looking forward to this evening, and this establishment is most elegant. Very Romantic, but perhaps a bit more…stuffy than you’re used to?”

Now reel her in, man. Slowly.

“Sherlock is very vulnerable right now. His emotions, you know, all over the place.” He leaned forward and placed an avuncular hand on Molly’s knee, patting. “We don’t want him to feel…conspicuous. Or, even worse… embarrassed.” He punctuated this speech, by clasping his hands to his breast, and looking at her beseechingly.

Molly smiled sweetly at him, and patted his knee in return. There might be a chance to get this back on schedule after all!

Then, however, she leapt from the sofa and pointed down at him yelling “Fibber!”

Mycroft jumped to his feet as well. “You are just as bull-headed as my brother. Why can’t you just bloody go along? You don’t understand how behind schedule we are.”

Molly could not believe the gall of the man! “You aren’t worried about Sherlock. You’re worried about yourself and your precious plan! This is my life, Mycroft. Am I to have no say?“

“My dear woman, you’ve already had your say, haven’t you? I was there, remember, when Sherlock made that phone call. I saw both sides. You think you were devastated? He was destroyed! Because he hurt you. Because he loves you!” Mycroft’s face was getting very red. “You asked for…no…you demanded…Romance, something he has no understanding of, or experience with, and he’s running himself ragged to make it perfect for you. The graphs! The charts! Not to mention the diorama!”

Molly watched with wide eyes, as Mycroft breathed heavily for a moment, then brought his hands up, smoothing his hair back. Then they fisted on his hips, and he regarded her with the exasperation of a father for a particularly naughty child.

“Now get in there, young lady, and try on those dresses. Not another word.”

Molly was still angry. She probably should have argued. But there was something about Mycroft’s frantic plotting that…touched her.

“Very well then Mycroft, I’ll go along, if it’s so important to you. But in return I want you think very carefully about something. I want you to think about why you’re doing this. Perhaps you haven’t been the best brother, or the best son. Well, neither has Sherlock. And neither was I the best daughter to my father. And neither was John the best husband to Mary. We’re all human. Even you. We’ve all made mistakes. I know you love your brother. And I know you feel horribly guilty. But Sherlock is a grown man now, and it’s not your job to fix everything for him. You think about that.” And with that, she turned and headed toward her room.

Mycroft blew out a breath and sunk onto Molly Hooper’s very comfortable sofa. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Forty-five minutes lost. Not good, but not a disaster either. Everything would still be perfect. It had to be. Sherlock would have this. He wanted Molly Hooper, and he would have her. And Mycroft was beginning to understand why he wanted her so much. And, if he was honest with himself, he was a bit envious.


	11. Operation Dining and Dancing Detective - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and the boys get him ready for his date with Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter! Part 1 of the big date! This is Sherlock getting ready and, finally! out the door to pick up Molly for their night of Romance (we hope).
> 
> I had to split this, because it was becoming a bit of a monster. The rest is coming in either 1 or 2 more parts, depending upon how wordy everyone is feeling. 
> 
> A bit of what's been going on in Sherlock's mind.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine. I own nothing!

Saturday:

221B Baker Street was dark.  

John, Sherlock, and Greg sat side by side on the sofa. John was slumped back, head to the side, regarding his fingernails with more interest than they deserved. Greg was surreptitiously playing with his phone, which was hidden in the hand lying on his knee. In the middle, Sherlock sat up, ramrod straight. While the other two men wore rumpled, comfortable looking clothes, Sherlock was dressed in a pair of perfectly pressed dress pants and a vest. His shirt, jacket and tie were hanging on the ready in his room, to be donned at the last possible moment, per Mycroft’s instructions. “No one likes wrinkles, Sherlock. First impressions form a lasting mental picture, you know.” Sherlock did not share that his first impression of Molly Hooper had been one where she was covered in blood and bile from a particularly grisly autopsy, and he still wanted to…well, best not think about that yet.

Sherlock’s eyes were sharply focused straight ahead, but his mind was wandering. How he had allowed things to get so far out of control, he had no idea. 

He was finally admitting to himself was that he had been staggering around for weeks in some sort of panic-induced, emotional fog.  After he had finally recognized his true feelings for Molly, he felt a kind of euphoria he had never experienced before, outside of drug use. He, Sherlock, would have a partner to share his life with, something he never thought was possible for him. And, as egomaniacal as it sounded, he had assumed that Molly would just happily go along. Thinking back now, on the things he had said to her that day at John’s, he was ashamed of himself.  John had been right.  He wanted Molly Hooper to fall into his arms, with no questions asked, and very little effort on his part, just because he was finally ready, and had deemed it so.

And, just like the tosser he was, he'd gotten ahead of himself, let his gob run away with him, and cocked everything up. 

He hadn’t quite learned the lesson of Vivian Norbury after all, and this time the bullet had found its true mark.  He had turned the gun on himself.  The thought had never, not once, crossed his mind that he might lose Molly Hooper’s steadfast love.  That after all that had happened between them, all of his persistent denial and outright neglect of her feelings, that he might have to, for once, prove HIS love to her.  


So, he had thrown himself into the plan for this “Romantic date,” a bit out of desperation, and he had dragged Mycroft, John and Greg along with him.  With Mycroft’s involvement, it became, as it always did with his brother, a locomotive engine barreling forward at breakneck speed, and it was way too late to get off now. If he did so, if he tried to beg off and bring them back to the beginning, to do it all over again, correctly this time, he feared he would break Molly’s faith in him, and lose her forever. The time to have thrown himself at Molly’s feet had passed. Now he only had tonight. He simply hoped that all of this…theatre…was what she needed from him. He hoped that after he had given her a night of perfect, nauseating, romance, that she would be willing to meet him half-way. If not…well…who was he kidding? If not, he would beg, he would plead, he would leave rodents at her door, he would buy her damn cat a cute little Christmas outfit, himself a matching sweater and pose for holiday photos. He’d do anything.

But. There was still tonight to prove himself worthy. He could do it. He was Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and he could do anything…for Molly Hooper.

So, he brought himself back to the present, and Mycroft, and the powerpoint, which Anthea had indeed revised. Again. Where were they? Oh thank god. The conclusion.

“So,” Mycroft said, “in conclusion, I give you the five salient points.” Mycroft hit the presentation clicker, and the image on the screen switched from a slightly blurry photo of Molly Hooper, obviously taken at the morgue, hair in a high ponytail, wearing a pristine lab coat and protective goggles, leaning back with one hand raised, partially covering her face, which was looking not quite “cheesed-off,” but definitely “vexed,” to a blank screen with five bullet points. 

These were:

1) Groundwork  
2) Appearance and Style  
3) Punctuality  
4) Approach and Attitude  
5) Compliments

Mycroft paused for a moment, so as to allow the slower readers in the group to catch up, then hit the presentation clicker again. The last slide was a clip-art image of two silhouetted heads, one male and one female, face to face, surrounded by hearts, flowers and chirping birdies. Ghastly! Underneath the couple, simply the word ROMANCE. Sherlock could feel the bile rising up in his throat, but he manfully swallowed it down. 

How had this become his life?

Mycroft seemed to be waiting for something. Ah. Sherlock nudged John and Greg with his elbows, and the two immediately sat up at attention, and began clapping. This caused Greg to drop his phone, the screen of which showed that he had been engaged in an online game of Yahtzee with someone whose username was CoPPerLuVr6969. Sherlock kicked the phone under the couch and clapped along. “Wonderful, Mycroft. Just riveting. Please thank Anthea for us.”

Mycroft gave off preening at the applause and huffed. “She should be thanking me for all the overtime I’ve paid out over the last week. She’ll be getting herself that Segway she’s wanted on the government’s pound. If she thinks she’ll be riding it round the office though, she’s very much mistaken.”

Mycroft was looking a bit peaky, Sherlock thought. He had thrown himself into this project with more vigor than he did to devouring a plate of Jam Roly-Poly, and the strain was showing. It was something that Molly would tell him was…sweet. Sherlock knew better. This was his brother trying to exert control over Sherlock’s life, as he always had! 

Mycroft had taken over his and Molly’s Romantic date to the point where Sherlock felt almost superfluous. In fact, Mycroft would probably have preferred to dress Greg’s “mannequin from down the station” in Sherlock’s suit, tie and coat, and send it along on the date instead of Sherlock.  He could embed a little microphone, and do all the talking for Sherlock as well. He’d show him, the bleeding…Molly hugger.

Sherlock stood from the couch and announced, “Well gentlemen, I believe it’s time.” He moved to his bedroom, with his trio of cupids following behind like ducklings. They stood around him in a semi-circle as he donned his shirt and jacket, and tied his tie. “Well,” he said, standing back and holding his arms out. “Will I do, do you think?”

John turned to Greg and said, “they grow up so fast, don’t they? It seems like just yesterday we were changing his nappies and cutting up his meat for him.”

“That was yesterday,” Greg replied immediately, causing John to laugh. 

Greg stepped forward, producing a brand new bottle of cologne, and insisted on “misting” Sherlock with it. “There’s the stuff. Molly doesn’t stand a chance. Pre-tested, this is.”

“Pardon?” asked Sherlock, slapping at Mycroft’s hands as he fussed with Sherlock’s tie and tired to slick his hair back a bit.

“Well, I did an experiment, didn’t I? I was thinking about what Mike said about groundwork. I figured, why not be thorough, so I slapped some on before I went down the morgue to see Molly. Had her take a good, long sniff. Thought she was going to tear my shirt off.”

Sherlock glared at him. “You had Molly…sniff you?”

John shook his head at Greg, 

“Well, yeah,” Greg told Sherlock. He pointed to the place where his neck met his shoulder. “Just right there. Tickled a bit.” Greg grinned at him.

“You…” Sherlock started toward him, and John and Mycroft each grabbed an arm to hold him back. “Sherlock, wrinkles!”

John patted Sherlock’s back with his free hand. “Sherlock! He’s taking the piss. Calm down.”

Sherlock didn’t calm down. John tried again.

“Who is taking Molly Hooper out to dinner tonight?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, and continued glaring at Greg, who was outright laughing at him, the bastard.

“I am.”  


John continued. “And who has Molly Hooper been mad about, poor girl, for almost a decade?”

Sherlock’s arms started to lose their rigidity.

“Me.”

“You.” said John, letting his arm go. “So, let’s get this show on the road before Mycroft makes us listen to his fascinating twenty minute presentation on punctuality again, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft released him as well.

Sherlock shrugged, cracked his neck, and ran his hands through his hair, causing the curls to become a disordered mess, just like he knew Molly liked. “Let’s do this.”

********************

At the door to 221B, the men gathered like soldiers seeing a comrade off into battle.

Greg handed Sherlock a bright bunch of flowers. “Here you go Romeo. Good luck.”

Sherlock regarded the flowers, then turned to Mycroft. “Peonies? But…I told you Molly likes daisies.”

Mycroft shook his head dismissively. “These are more appropriate.”

“But…”  


“Daisies were not on the spreadsheet Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. “No deviation. We discussed this.”

Sherlock clutched the stems of the flowers in a vise-like grip and fantasized about hitting Mycroft over the head with them. Repeatedly. 

Mycroft continued. “Now, are you sure you don’t want to wear the earpiece? I have it right here.” He patted his chest-pocket.

“I don’t need an earpiece, Mycroft!” Did his brother think him totally incapable of doing anything by himself?

“Are you sure? Just in case you run into a of bit trouble. We could have a code word. A little signal?”

“Oh yeah,” Greg said excitedly. “Like…Red Alert! Red Alert!”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft stared at him blankly.

“You know,” Greg continued, “like on Star Trek?”

Nothing.

“Did you two even have a childhood?” asked Greg disbelievingly.

“Forgive us Greg,” said Mycroft, “if Sherlock and I spent our youths studying things like literature, science, music and dancing, while you were sitting in front of the idiot box with a gormless smile on your face.”

Greg turned to John. “Can you imagine the beatings they must have took in school? No wonder they're both a little off their nut.”

Mycroft ignored this and turned back to Sherlock. “You’re quite sure?”

John stepped in. “Mycroft. I don’t think Sherlock or Molly would want you listening in on their date. What if things take a more…” John searched for a word Mycroft would understand…”carnal turn?”

But this was Mycroft. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh for pete’s sake Mike,” Greg cried, exasperated, “no man wants his brother listening in while he’s trying to play hide the cannoli!”

“They are going to a French restaurant! Were you not paying attention to the powerpoint?!”

“Leaving now,” Sherlock announced, opened the door to 221B and stepped out.

John stepped out after him, closing the door on Greg’s “Have you never even kissed a girl?”

“You okay, mate?” John asked. He was concerned for Sherlock, who had seemed particularly quiet today.

“Fine, John,” Sherlock said, and then put his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “Look at me. Going out. On a date. With Molly Hooper.”

The two of them broke out in laughter.

John said quietly, “I confess, I never thought I’d see the day. I’m happy for you Sherlock. And for Molly. I wish Mary was here to see this.”

Oh.

Sherlock pulled his friend in for a tight hug, bouquet of bloody peonies held aloft. “I do too. How she would have laughed at us all.”

John pulled away, wiping at his face. “One thing's for sure, she would have bolloxed Mycroft half-way through that powerpoint. Do me one favor?”

“Of course, John.”

“Try to have just a little bit of fun tonight Sherlock. Make this about you and Molly, right? Not about Mycroft and his plans.”

Sherlock nodded. John pulled open the door to 221B, and coming from within was Greg’s exasperated voice…”Buttering the biscuit? Giving her the beans? How about Pickling the Prime Minister? That’s more your speed…” Then the door was closed, and Sherlock was left alone in the quiet hallway.

He sighed, checked his watch, cradled the abominable floral arrangement, and headed down the stairs.

He had almost made it outside, when the door to 221A flew open, and Mrs. Hudson barreled out into the entryway yelling, “Sherlock! Oh Sherlock! You weren’t trying to sneak out for your big date with Molly without seeing me first, were you?”

Sherlock, who had been doing just that, froze. He wasn’t even to be spared this, then? He pasted a smile on his face and turned to his landlady. “Of course not, Mrs. Hudson. Never! I just didn’t want to disturb you, in case you were resting.”

“Resting?” Mrs. Hudson asked, as if the idea never occurred to her. “Oh Sherlock, you and your jokes. Let’s have a look at you then. All spiffed up for our Molly, are you?” She looked him up and down. “I must say, you look very handsome, Sherlock. Molly’s a lucky girl, even if you have been a bit of a nasty pillock to her in the past. But then I don’t judge.”

Sherlock smiled wanly at her.

“Oh, I nearly forgot! I have something for you. You just wait here. Won’t be a tic.” 

Mrs. Hudson flew back through the door of 221A and Sherlock eyed the front door, like a starving Mycroft eyed the last slice of Spotted dick.

Mrs. Hudson was true to her word though, and almost immediately returned carrying a brown paper bag, which she held out to Sherlock. “Well, go on, take it. It’s for you.”

Sherlock regarded the bag warily, then looked back up at Mrs. Hudson’s smiling face. “Mrs. Hudson,” he began, “if there are prophylactics in that bag…”

“Sherlock!” she cut him off with a scolding tone. “As if I’d buy you condoms! Really, the idea!” Her look of offended outrage was real.

“I’m sorry…I”

She pulled a box out of the bag. “They’re French Ticklers! Condoms, indeed. As if I didn’t love Molly like my own daughter! I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing. Trusting you with regular old condoms? Hah! These are made for HER pleasure, you see? That way, if you’re a little quick on the trigger…”

Sherlock whirled and headed for the door. He made it one-and-a-half steps before he was stopped by a vice-like grip on his arm, halting him in his tracks. Good god, but she was strong! Was she alternately drinking tea and lifting weights in there?

He was swiftly turned around and met with Mrs. Hudson’s angry glare. “Take them!” She held out the box.

“No!”

Her eyes became slits. “You take these Sherlock Holmes, or I’ll be forced to tell Molly about the time I walked in on you upstairs wearing only a pair of…”

“Oh alright!” Sherlock grabbed the box and shoved it in his coat pocket. “Good evening.”

“Have fun dear!” Mrs. Hudson called after him. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”


	12. Operation Dining and Dancing Detective - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's on the way! Molly reflects. The Boys are...The Boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Romantic date. This is a lot of reflection and ramp-up. 
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful, supportive commentary. Please keep letting me know you are enjoying this! Behind on responses, but I'll get there. Why does work get in the way of fun?
> 
> As always, all mistake are, sadly, mine. And sadder, I own nothing.

Sherlock utilized the breathing techniques that he had practiced with Mary Watson during her pregnancy, as he rode in the back of one of Mycroft’s sumptuous vehicles, in the direction of Molly Hooper’s flat. No wonder Mary was so cross. They were absolute rubbish!

Sherlock had planned to take a taxi to Molly’s, but this idea was poo-pooed by Mycroft as “Pedestrian, Sherlock! A gentleman picks a lady up for a date in his own vehicle. A taxi! Why don’t you just hand her bus fare, give her a pat on the behind, and tell her to meet you there?” 

Sherlock had acquiesced. He had also checked the vehicle thoroughly for listening devices, and searched the chauffeur. Twice. He would put nothing past Mycroft and his interfering ways. Surprisingly, there were no bugs. But there were five hard-copies of Mycroft’s powerpoint presentation hidden throughout the car’s interior. He found another in the driver’s coat pocket. Sherlock confiscated them all, and cheerfully ripped them to shreds, scattering them out the car window like confetti.

He checked his watch. Right on schedule. Punctual. Very good.

Was it hot in here?

The interior of the vehicle felt…warm. Stifling really. The scent of the flowers was cloying. His tie was a noose around his neck, choking the life out of him!. He needed air! He stuck his head out of the window, like a dog, in order to stave off the panic attack. Unfortunately, he was clutching the bouquet of peonies as he did so, and they became rather…denuded.

Sherlock had just managed to get his breathing back under control, as the car slid smoothly to a stop in front of Molly Hooper’s flat.

There was a sound, indicating he had an incoming text message.

Mycroft: MINTS! Fresh breath essential.

Sherlock gave his phone the two-fingered salute and switched it off. Then, for good measure, he removed the battery.

So this was it then. Sherlock closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and pictured Molly Hooper’s dear face. Then the door to the vehicle opened, and Sherlock hopped out and went to face his doom.

********************

Five minutes earlier.

Molly Hooper nervously paced her flat. She had been sitting on the sofa, nervously tapping her feet, until she remembered Mycroft Holmes’ cross lecture on “Appearance and Style,” five mind-numbing minutes of which was devoted to “wrinkles and/or creases,” and the apparently execrable effect they had on first impressions.

Molly had not shared that her first impression of Sherlock Holmes had been the detective kneeling over a decapitated body, sniffing the gory hole that had previously contained a head. And, even so, she still wanted to…but best not to think about that just yet.

Anthea had showed up at Molly’s flat three hours earlier, as agreed, to help Molly get ready for the evening. Molly had discovered that Anthea did indeed have a voice, and that once she warmed up to someone, the woman was a chatterbox to rival Martha Hudson. 

“I think you are ever so brave, taking on Mr. Holmes-the-younger,” Anthea said to Molly, as she was ruthlessly brushing and pulling at Molly’s hair, so that she could secure it into an elegant chignon. “The trouble he gives the boss! I can’t tell you! Honestly, I really couldn’t or they’d probably have to kill me. Oh, and speaking of Mr. Holmes-the-elder! He’s been in high dudgeon, as ill-tempered as a three-legged polar bear, for the past few weeks. Honestly, I don’t know why he bothered sticking his nose in. But then, he never thinks anything can be done properly without his assistance. The times I’ve found that he’s hacked into my computer and fussed with my paperwork! As if I can’t work a spreadsheet in my sleep! Between us girls, I purposely left some spelling errors in his powerpoint this time. Take that you old grumbler! But really, how many times was he going to have me revise it? I had to re-do the section on Punctuality at least six times. If it weren’t for the fact that I’ll be able to pay for my Segway on the overtime, I would have told him to stick it up his la-di-da arse.” She finally paused to take a breath. “How lovely you look, Molly!”

The Molly that stared back at her from the mirror, was not a Molly Hooper that she recognized. 

1) Perfect hair. Anthea, along with all her myriad talents, was apparently also an expert at women’s coiffures. Molly’s hair was sleek and smooth, pulled back gracefully from her face, and secured to the back of her head in an elegant coil, not one strand daring to escape its careful confinement.

2) Perfect makeup. Ditto Anthea. It was understated, with just a bit of liner and smoky, dark shadow, making her eyes appear huge and…seductive. Her cheekbones were contoured with a hint of blusher. Lips outlined and filled with a soft rose, until they looked almost full.

3) Perfect Frock. Molly currently wore the third of the three dresses that she had modeled for Mycroft’s ultimate approval.

Dress #1 was a daring little cocktail number, with a deep V of a neckline and a short, tight skirt. This had immediately been waved off by Mycroft irritably. “Anthea! What did I tell you? That dress is much too…provocative. Honestly, can’t anyone follow simple instructions? Do you want Sherlock leaping out windows?” He pointed at Molly. “Trust me when I tell you, he is not ready for that!”

Dress #2 was a matronly frock with a high neckline that gathered and fell in pleats to mid-calf. It was probably the ugliest dress that Molly had ever seen in her life, and she couldn’t understand how Anthea could have possibly chosen it. It looked like a dress you’d bury Margaret Thatcher’s grandmother in. Of course, Mycroft had adored it. “Oh that’s lovely! Look how it drapes and flows without any….unseemly bumps or bulges.” Anthea had stepped in at that point. It was the first time Molly had heard her speak. “Boss, it looks like the dress my great-granny wears to church on Sundays in the village. Shall I get her some support hose too, so she can wear them rolled down her ankles? Maybe a jaunty cane to go with it? That would be toff!” Mycroft did not appreciate sarcasm, especially from one of his staff, but when Molly had chimed in with a similar opinion, he had given in. 

Which brings us to the winner.

Dress #3. The dress that Molly Hooper was currently wearing and not wrinkling. The dress, she realized, that the clever Anthea had meant for her all along. She had provided Mycroft with a "Goldilocks" scenario. One too hot, one too cold, and one just right. Brilliant. Molly was definitely going to invite Anthea and Mrs. Hudson over for tea just to see what they’d make of each other. But, back to the dress. It was black silk. It skimmed her shoulders, making her neck look swan-like, especially with her hair pulled back. The neckline of the dress was modest, showing only a hint of Molly’s décolletage, such as it was. The dress was fitted to her waist, showing off her slender curves, then flared out in a flowing skirt that fell to just her knee. 

4) Perfect shoes. On her feet Molly wore a pair of black heels so high that she had balked at first when Anthea pulled them from their box. However, it seemed that shoes that must have cost approximately the same amount as the rent on her flat, were constructed to be more comfortable than the ones Molly’s budget allowed. She found she could actually…walk in them, without pitching forward onto her face, or dropping to her bum, per usual. Of course there could be only one explanation for this. Anthea was actually some sort of witch, and Mycroft Holmes was not running The British Government, but was actually the headmaster of Hogwarts! It would certainly explain a lot. 

It was the most gorgeous ensemble that Molly had ever worn, and absolutely the most expensive. She had tried to get Anthea to tell her how much it had cost, but, despite being a bit of a chatty-puss, the woman could apparently keep a secret. Molly fervently hoped it wasn’t too dear, and she hated the thought of Mycroft spending that kind of money, especially on her.

And also…she loathed it. 

It was just that everything was so…unrelentingly…black. Not a bit of color. Not cheerful at all. Mycroft had even forbidden her to wear her lovely lemon-colored pashmina, going so far as to take it from the flat, lest she try and do so behind his back. 

And, even though she knew that, for once, she looked like a woman who belonged on the arm of the striking Mr. Holmes-the-younger, Molly still longed for her pretty little apricot dress with its bobs and bows.

After zipping up the dress for her, Anthea turned Molly around, looked her up and down, nodded, then pulled out her phone and zipped off a quick text. She gathered her things and made her way to the door, where she gave Molly a tight hug. “I must dash! I have the crock-pot on at home, and the boss asked me to make a quick stop at the Algerian Embassy to drop off some concert tickets for the ambassador’s daughter. Apparently she’s quite the Belieber! I would wish you luck, but you won’t need it. You look fantastic! I programmed my numbers into your phone, and added myself to the Friend list on your blog. I didn’t realize you were so ironic. It’s hilarious! Call me!”

With that, she was out the door of Molly’s flat, leaving behind nothing but the scent of her perfume.

A rap at her door, brought Molly back from her musings with a start. She felt her stomach flutter. Butterflies upon butterflies. An entire apiary of buzzing bees. 

Sherlock Holmes had arrived to take her out on a Romantic date.

*********************

Back at 221B Baker Street

John and Greg sat across from each other at the kitchen table, playing a hand of cards.

The sliding doors were open, and they could both clearly see through to the front room, and the pacing figure of Mycroft Holmes. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. He was alternately muttering to himself and checking his phone.

Greg raised his eyebrows at John and cocked his head toward Mycroft, this look saying clearly, That’s all you, mate!

John sighed. It really didn’t pay to be the only sane man in an asylum. “Mycroft,” he called, “you’re acting like an expectant father! Come in here and sit down. We’ll deal you in.”

Mycroft stomped to the doors of the kitchen, holding his phone aloft. “He’s turned off his phone! Sherlock never turns off his phone! I think he removed the battery! Now I can’t even track him by GPS!”

“You were tracking him?" asked Greg. “That’s illegal Mike.”

Mycroft gave this the grave consideration it deserved. Meaning none.

“How am I supposed to keep track of their progress now? I’ll never be able to finish writing up my report! Oh this is typical Sherlock. Never thinking of anyone but himself.”

Against his better judgment, John asked, “What do you mean by progress?”

Mycroft looked incensed at his dim-wittedness. “Their progress throughout the exercise, of course! Their movements. If they’re keeping to the timetable! If I know Sherlock he’ll be bandying about, running his gob, getting more and more behind schedule. Oh, this is a disaster! I should have made him wear the earpiece.”

“Mycroft,” John said, trying to reason with the lunatic, “this is NOT an exercise. It’s not a military operation. It’s a date. It’s Sherlock and Molly’s date. Not yours. Sherlock is a thirty-eight-year-old man. It’s time to cut the apron strings.”

“But…but…” Mycroft was so taken aback by this, that he was becoming insensible.

“Besides,” Greg put in, studying his cards, “Sherlock’s been backed up for years now. Not healthy for man to keep it in that long. You’ll be lucky if they make it out of the flat.”

Suddenly Mycroft was outraged. “This is their first date! And Dr. Hooper is NOT that kind of woman! The idea! Are you really suggesting that instead of going out on the lovely Romantic date I’ve planned, that they would just…just…”

“Play hide the bishop?” suggested Greg, looking to John, grinning.

John: “Do the horizontal hula? 

Greg: “Sharpen the pencil?”

John: “Dunk the dingus?” 

Greg: “Stuff the taco? 

John: “Ride the Bony Express?” 

Greg: “Do squat thrusts in the cucumber patch?” 

John lost it. “I can’t beat that one.”

“Gentlemen!” yelled Mycroft, “if you’re quite finished.”

“C’mon, Mike,” Greg said, “it’d do him some good. He’s too keyed up all the time. You just let Sherlock and Molly alone. Let nature take its course. Then we’ll get to work on you.”

“Me?!” cried Mycroft

There was a soft knocking on the door.

John got up to get the door, patting Mycroft on the back on his way by.

He opened the door to 221B to reveal Mrs. Hudson. “Hey, Mrs. H. What’s up?”

“Oh nothing, nothing John. Just coming up to check in. I saw Sherlock on his way out. Seemed a little tense to me, but then he’s always a little keyed up, isn’t he? I think our Molly will be ever so good for him. Not healthy for a man his age not to clean his pipes out every once in a while, I always say.”

Greg and Mycroft’s eyes met, and Greg lifted his brows. See?

“Oh!" cried Mrs. Hudson. “Speaking of clogged pipes, how are you Mr. Holmes? Came to see Sherlock off on his date, did you? Hello, Greg dear, I’ve heard good things about you from down the pub, you rascal!”

Greg wiggled his brows at her, causing Mrs. Hudson to let loose with a series of, frankly, terrifying giggles.

“I’m leaving!” announced Mycroft. “I can’t just sit around here doing nothing, while Sherlock is off on his date, gadding about and blithely ruining all my hard work! I’ll go to the office. Get started on the report. But I warn you, it’ll be rubbish without the proper data. Don’t be looking forward to the presentation.”

“Oh, we won’t,” muttered Greg.

Mycroft donned his coat, picked up his umbrella and stalked to the door, at which, Mrs. Hudson blocked his exit. “Excuse me.”

Mrs. Hudson studied him. “Oh, Mr. Holmes. You look very tired. I can’t imagine what you must have been going through, dealing with Sherlock. He can be such a handful.”

“Well,” Mycroft grumped, “yes. Thank you. I confess I am feeling a bit peaky. It’s been a very stressful few weeks.”

“Of course it has.” She patted his shoulder. “Poor man. You know what you need? A strong cup of tea. Cures everything, I always say. Why don’t you come down to 221A with me, and I’ll make you one, and some biscuits! Wouldn’t that be nice? We’ll have a good long visit, and send you home feeling like new.” 

“I suppose I have time for one cup.” Mycroft sniffed, glad to be understood finally, even if it was by this...woman.

“Lovely!” replied Mrs. Hudson. She took Mycroft's arm and led him out the door. “Well fix you right up.”

John closed the door behind them, and turned to Greg. “What in the name of Aristotle's arse was that all about?”

“Dunno,” Greg said. “Can’t be anything good though, can it? Knowing her.”

“I can’t imagine what she’s up to this time,” said John.

“Well," Greg said philosophically, "as long as they’re not down there loading the clown into the cannon…Can we play cards now?”


	13. Operation Dining and Dancing Detective - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big date...ish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter tried to killed me. Do not turn your back on it!
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kind compliments and kudos!
> 
> Special thanks to Woaf, who did me the great honor of writing and dedicating to me, a related work, "A Great Double Act." Go read it. It's perfect!
> 
> All mistakes mine. I own nothing but self-doubt and a crappy car.

Sherlock Holmes stood at the door of Molly Hooper’s flat, trying to make his hand, the one not clutching flowers, rise to knock. Somehow, it didn’t want to move. He’d lost control of his bodily functions! No...he was panicking. Mustn’t panic. He heard John’s voice in his head…”Sherlock, it’s MOLLY. Why would you be anxious?”

Yes! It was just Molly. Molly Hooper. Dear, sweet, funny little Molly. Molly loved him. No, Molly adored him. Molly thought he was the best thing since cheese on toast.

Okay. Better. He recalled Mycroft’s instructions on Approach and Attitude. “Stand up straight, Sherlock. Shoulders back, Sherlock. Smile!”

Sherlock stood up straight. Threw his shoulders back. He smiled. 

Deep breath now.

He knocked.

It’s just Molly, it’s just Molly, it’s just Molly, it’s just Molly, it’s just Molly, it’s just Molly….

The door swung open, and…

What in the name of St. Crispin’s cocktail was this? This wasn’t Molly Hooper! Was it?

The Molly Hooper standing in the doorway looked very little like the Molly Hooper Sherlock knew and adored. Where was the horrid, brightly colored frock?! Where were the fripperies and bows?! Where were the sensible little shoes, even the tiny heels of which caused her to wobble about and fall on her bum like a ungainly penguin?!

The Molly Hooper staring up at him looked like some sort of…Prima Ballerina. If such creatures wore stiletto heeled shoes that made their legs look a kilometer long. This Molly Hooper’s face was made up, lightly, in a way that made her look glamorous and enticing. What the devil was going on? 

He wanted HIS Molly. Not this sophisticated…siren gazing back at him. He felt the panic rising up again, and ruthlessly pushed it back.

Was she purposely trying to throw him off his game? Was the little coquette toying with him? And, if so, who did she think she was? Well, he wasn’t going to let her! 

Remember who you are, man. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Not someone to be trifled with.

“Sherlock?” Molly said, gazing at him in soft concern.

Oh bugger. Better stick to the plan then. Why hadn’t he kept just one copy of that damned powerpoint?

Approach and Attitude! He opened his mouth to deliver a series of compliments on Molly's beauty, but what came out was…”I need to use the loo.”

“Oh,” Molly replied looking confused, “of course. Come in.”

She stepped back, and Sherlock entered the flat cautiously, looking around as if he expected that it would have been turned into some sort of bordello. Everything looked the same. Same front room, Toby lying on his place on the sofa. Same kitchen. The kitchen. Oh. Best not to think about that.

Molly closed the door and turned to him. Why was she looking at him like that?

“You know where the loo is,” she said.

The loo? Oh, right. It was calling to him, but better not. He knew himself well enough to know that the temptation to escape out her window would be too high.

“Changed my mind.” He told her.

“Oh. Ummm...”

“You look very…alluring tonight, Molly.” Sherlock offered.

She looked down at herself, and Sherlock could have sworn she was frowning a bit, but it quickly changed to a serene smile. A Not-Molly smile. “Yes. Thank you, Sherlock.”

More silence. Then he remembered.

“These are for you.” He thrust the flowers out toward her, only realizing at the last moment that they were now, after their exposure to the windy London evening, basically stems with a few pitiful petals hanging on for dear life.

Molly regarded them curiously. “How…sweet. That was very thoughtful.” She glided over to take them from him. “They’re very…avant garde.”

Oh good. She liked them after all. Maybe Mycroft was right about the peonies.

“Let me just…find a proper vase for them, and then we can be off.”

Sherlock nodded. Molly took off into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat himself down on her sofa and tried to collect himself. He eyed Toby, who was regarding him with what looked like pity. 

He heard some rustling from the kitchen. A cabinet banging. Then the rubbish bin opening and closing. Must be garbage night.

Molly glided, like a bloody fashion model, back into the room, and Sherlock leapt to his feet. 

“Ready to go?” She asked.

“Absolutely. More than ready. Keen, really. It’s a….beauteous night. Mustn’t waste it.”

*********************

Sherlock and Molly sat rigidly, a good meter between them, as they rode toward what Sherlock fervently prayed was a Romantic restaurant.

The silence in the car was awkward. Not like them at all. Molly, once you got her going, could be a chatterbox to rival Mrs. Hudson. Though he'd once told her that conversation wasn’t her area, he now found himself missing her nervous prattling. And what was wrong with him? He, who had been endlessly accused of loving the sound of his own voice. He had been totally thrown off his game by the glamorous creature beside him, this Not-Molly, and he could find nothing to say to her. He had to pull himself together, though, or this night would be an utter disaster. And he needed this to go well, so he could prove to Molly Hooper that he could be a different Sherlock going forward. A partner who would respect her, care about her feelings, and give her what she needed and deserved.

He heard Greg’s voice in his head...“Then talk to her, you plonker! Sure, she looks a treat, but it’s still old Molly, isn’t it? Sell Sherlock! Remember, intercourse if for closers. Sell! Sell!”

Sherlock turned slightly toward her, lowering his voice to the deep timbre he knew affected her the most. “Have I told you how beguiling you look tonight, Molly Hooper?” Bugger, he was doing them in alphabetical order.

Molly turned to him with a wan smile. “Yes you did, Sherlock, but it’s very nice to hear again, of course. Thank you. You look very handsome. I like your cologne.”

“Bet it makes you want to rip my shirt off.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Thank you. It’s new.”

His mind went blank again. Couldn’t do another compliment so soon, the ratio would be off. Molly came to his rescue.

She gestured around the interior of the vehicle. “This is a very smart car.”

Car? Oh, yes. They were riding in a car.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “It’s very…bewitching.”

This made Molly’s head swing his way, her brow furrowing. 

“It’s one of Mycroft’s, actually. He lent it to us for the evening. He wanted to….help.”

Molly grumbled under breath, “Yes, he’s very helpful, isn’t he?”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

This was excruciating. He took a peek at his watch. At least two more endless minutes until they reached the restaurant. How to fill the void?

Music!

“Music!” Sherlock exclaimed, and Molly jumped a bit. “Why don’t we have some Romantic music?”

Sherlock reached forward to hit a button on the elaborate sound system. 

What he didn’t expect was for Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” to come blaring out of the speakers. 

“Ooo baby I like it raw/Ooo baby I like it rawwwww/Shimmy shimmy ya, shimmy yam, shimmy yay.” Was this what Mycroft listened to as he was barreling around London?

Sherlock fumbled with the buttons, finally able to change to some classical piece, Vivaldi, and turning it up. Loud.

He sat back, breathing heavily. Disaster averted!

He realized that Molly was pulling at his arm, trying to get his attention. He turned to her. She was talking. He couldn’t hear her. He’d been rendered deaf! No. The music was just playing at an eardrum shattering decibel. He reached to turn it down. “Pardon, Molly,” he apologized, “What was that?”

“We’ve stopped. Sherlock, we’re here.”

********************

Molly opened the door to the car, ready to hop out. She was surprised, as she did so, by the sight of the smartly uniformed chauffeur standing there, hand extended to the door, given her a supremely snotty glare. She had totally forgotten about the man. 

“Oh. I was supposed to let you do that, wasn’t I?” She smiled sheepishly. The driver simply continue to gaze at her, one eyebrow raised. Oh how she was coming to hate the eyebrow… thingee! “I’ll just….” Molly sat back in the seat, and pulled the door closed. After a moment it opened again to reveal the driver, hand extended to help her from the car. Molly fervently hoped her palms were sweaty. The driver dropped her hand as soon as she was on her feet, and wiped his palm on his trousers. Take that, you miserable old sourpuss!

Sherlock came around the car, and they stood on the sidewalk looking up at “the most Romantic restaurant in London. Or, at least, the most expensive.”

La Loutre Vieillie was small, out of the way and very exclusive, Mycroft had assured him. “Hardly anyone can get in, Sherlock. It’s quite a coup to be able to get a reservation at all. And I did the groundwork myself. Very. Very. Romantic.”

“It looks lovely, Sherlock,” Molly said, smiling at him.

Sherlock held the door for her, gesturing for her to enter before him. “Yes it’s very comely, isn’t it.?

********************

Bent over a podium in the entryway of La Loutre Vieillie was an exceedingly tall, emaciated looking gentlemen of somewhat ancient years, dressed head to toe in black.

Sherlock’s first thought when he saw him was, “It’s Ichabod Crane!” Molly’s, “Death, so we meet at last!” Either way, it wasn’t what Mycroft Holmes would deem a good first impression. Though, his suit was pressed to perfection, not one wrinkle or crease, so who knew?

Despite Molly and Sherlock standing almost right on top of him, the gentleman, and Sherlock could really only think of him as Ichabod, did not look up from whatever he was studying that was so fascinating. It looked to be a book of some sort. Reservations, no doubt.

Oh, right. Reservations. Sherlock cleared his throat, and the gentleman’s gaze rose to from his book to them. He had a very pinched looking face, which reminded Sherlock of a headmaster at one the boy’s schools he had attended. He had been liberal with the cane, as Sherlock recalled, and had a rather unhealthy interest in young men’s bottoms. “We have a reservation I believe? Under Holmes.”

Ichabod’s gaze went back to the book, without a word. He licked a forefinger and began turning pages. Slowly.

Sherlock glanced at Molly out of the corner of his eye, and he could have sworn he saw her swallowing back a smile, but it was gone so fast, replaced by that placid, serene, Not-Molly expression, that he couldn’t be sure.

“Ah, yes,” the gentleman said, after a full minute of page turning, which had brought him back to the page he had started on, “Holmes. Here it is. Dinner for two.” He looked them both up and down, as if he had never seen such creatures in all his life. “Our best table, I see.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock was beginning to get irritated. He was already behind schedule and they hadn’t even made it to the table yet. It was past time to begin interjecting some actual Romance into their Romantic date.

May I take your coats?” Sherlock and Molly began to shed their outerwear, as Ichabod called out, “Frances!”

Frances was a tiny, round, elderly woman, who’s most distinguishing characteristics were her jet black (dyed) hair that was piled on top of her head in a towering beehive, and eyebrows that were plucked to within an inch of theirs lives, giving her a look of perpetual surprise. She, like Ichabod, was not a smiler. She merely held out her arms for their things, then disappeared to whatever hidey-hole she had come from.

“Please follow me,” said Ichabod. He led them from the entryway, through the restaurant, to their table. Slowly. What was most notable about this journey was the fact that all of the tables in the dining area were occupied by couples, each of whom were probably not a jot younger than Sherlock’s grandparents. One couple was so ancient that they appeared to be asleep, sitting up, at their table. 

Sherlock prayed that they weren’t actually dead. Though, on second thought, it might give he and Molly something to do together. 

This dream was dashed, however, when the man’s head suddenly rose from his chest and he exclaimed, “It’s the damned Socialists! A man can’t even get a decent cigar anymore…” then he seemed to drop off again.

The place was a Funeral Parlor that served food and drink. 

And this was the moment that Sherlock began calculating just what level of physical pain he was going to inflict on his brother.

They finally reached their table. Sherlock seated himself, as Ichabod pulled out Molly’s chair for her.

Molly sat, but because of the slipperiness of her silk frock, the little purse she was carrying, which she had perched on her lap, slipped off and dropped to the floor. Molly bent down to retrieve it. Unfortunately she did this at the same time as Ichabod, and they banged heads. 

The night was looking up! There was HIS Molly! She was still in there someone.

“Oh,” Molly exclaimed as she sat back in her seat. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

“Please,” said Ichabod in a voice that was not a request, but a command, “allow me.” He bent and retrieved Molly’s purse for her. With that he straightened, clicked his heels together, and made his way slowly back to his perch, rubbing his forehead. The minute he left the table, Molly’s purse again slid of her lap and to the floor with a “thunk.”

Molly looked at it. It looked very far away. She looked to Sherlock. “Best to just leave it.”

He nodded agreement. “Quite.”

“Well,” Molly began, as she looked about at the octogenarians scattered around the restaurant, drooling into their soup, “this is very…this restaurant…it’s just so…”

“Delightful?” offered Sherlock.

Molly agreed immediately. “Delightful! Yes, exactly what I was thinking.”

And back to silence.

“Have I told you how divine you look tonight?”

Molly narrowed her gaze at him. “Sherlock, are you feeling alright?”

He was saved from having to answer THAT question, when he spotted Ichabod slowly making his way toward them, a silver tray held aloft.

He stopped at their table and presented the tray to Sherlock. Merrily sitting in the middle of the tray, positively leering at Sherlock, was Mrs. Hudson’s jaunty blue box of “French Ticklers.” 

“Frances asked me to return these to you, sir.” Apparently they fell out of your coat pocket whilst she was hanging it.”

Sherlock thought his heart might have stopped for a moment. He looked at the box, then at Molly, who’s brows were raised so high they almost disappeared into her hairline.

“They’re mints!” cried Sherlock, grabbing the box and shoving it into his jacket pocket.

“Yes, sir,” Ichabod replied, “I have been given to understand they come in flavored varieties these days.”

He bowed to the table, and retreated.

And that had happened.

“Sherlock,” Molly started carefully, “I think maybe I should tell you that I’ve changed my…”

Sherlock was saved from hearing the end of that sentence by the appearance of a gangly young man, dressed in the typical black and white costume of a waiter. Sherlock could have kissed him. With tongue.

“Bonsoir Mademoiselle,” a little bow to Molly, “Monsieur,” a little bow to Sherlock. I am Hugo. I will be your server this evening.”

Hugo had a marked French accent, and sported glasses and a pencil mustache. Looking at him, Sherlock was catapulted back in time to the evening he had interrupted John’s proposal to Mary, to announce his return from the dead. He hoped it wasn’t an omen, and that the evening didn’t end in the same way, him with a bloody nose and an eye half-swollen shut.

Hugo produced a menu, which he handed to Sherlock with a flourish. “The wine list Monsieur. Perhaps you would like to choose something to begin with?”

Sherlock glanced at the list. Mycroft had suggested the best wine to order of course, but all Sherlock could remember now was that it had a name that sounded like Crepes Suzette said three times fast. Maybe he should have worn the earpiece.

What did it matter anyway? He was on his own. Look out Romance, here comes Sherlock Holmes.

“Bring me your finest bottle of champagne!” he told the young man.“Tout de suite!”

Hugo bowed to them and was off.

“Sherlock that’s much too dear!” Molly scolded.

“Nonsense! Not for you, Molly. Nothing is too good for the elegant and exquisite Molly Hooper.” He smiled charmingly at her.

The corners of Molly’s mouth twitched. “Elegant AND exquisite, am I? My, my that’s two in a row.”

Bugger she was catching on. Better skip Foxy.

“I just want to make sure this evening is as Romantic as possible for you. You DO find it Romantic, don’t you?” He paused briefly. “I’m…I’m doing alright?”

Molly’s heart squeezed at this moment of boyish insecurity, and she knew two things for certain: 1. She was going to have to lie, lie, lie like a rug, and 2. When she got her hands on Mycroft Holmes, whose grubby little paws were all over this fiasco, he was going to be very, very sorry. She was going to go Hudson on him.

“Oh yes!” Molly cried, punctuating this with fluttering lashes and hands clasped to her chest, “this is just the MOST romantic evening. You're doing very well Sherlock. Why, I’m almost in a…swoon!”

Sherlock didn’t know whether to be relieved by this, or to be concerned for Molly’s mental health that she found this…mausoleum...Romantic. But, then again, she was a pathologist, used to being surrounded by death and decay. Maybe Mycroft did know what he was doing after all.

“Excellent! And this is only the beginning!” God help him. “From here, it’s onto tripping the light fantastic! You do find dancing Romantic, yes?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Very. It’s just…well, you know me…I’m not very light on my feet. I hope I won’t be an embarrassment .” She worried her lower lip with her little white teeth.

Sherlock found himself suddenly relieved, and a bit…aroused, if he were honest. There was a flash of HIS Molly! His dear Molly. She was worrying about embarrassing him with her clumsiness. Even after he’d brought her stems as a gift, and dragged her to this nursing home for dinner. 

They had anticipated her reluctance to dancing for this very reason. It was on the spreadsheet. What he and Mycroft had practiced him saying in answer was, “As long as you’re in my arms, nothing else will matter.” But he was distracted by her teeth, and what they were doing, and what actually came out was…“You certainly don’t need to worry about that with me, Molly. I could make a rhino look like Ginger Rogers.”

Oh bugger. He hadn’t said that out loud, had he?

“Um…a rhino?” Molly looked at him with wide eyes, her mouth a perfect O.

“No! No! I didn’t mean that! That wasn’t what I was supposed to…I didn’t mean that you were…” Red Alert! Red Alert!

Molly grabbed her napkin from her lap and buried her face in it. He could hear…noises…coming from behind the napkin.

Sherlock began to get tunnel vision. He was the one that was going to swoon! How was this possible? He used to be in control of his emotions. He used to be arrogant and self-assured. He used to be able to keep his bloody gob shut and not babble any inanity that popped into his mind. This was Mycroft’s fault! And Molly’s! They knew normal human behavior wasn’t his forte. Not even fifteen minutes into dinner and he’d already made her cry. 

He had to fix this.

“Molly, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry. Of course you aren’t a rhino. You’re nothing like. Rhino’s have horns!”

At this, there was another “meep!” from behind the napkin. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. The urge to make a run for the loo had never been greater.

Then, all of a sudden, from behind the napkin, he heard…a snort. A…very…familiar…snort.

“Molly Hooper, are you laughing at me?!!!” He exclaimed, outraged.

The napkin dropped to just below Molly’s eyes. They were wide, wet and crinkled with…amusement?

“Rhinos have h-h-h-horns!” she said in a high, tremulous voice, and then, she lost it.

Peals and peals of snorting laughter rung out throughout the restaurant. Molly was literally doubled over in her chair, holding her stomach. Sherlock was afraid she might wee herself, the wench.

He leaned toward her. “Molly Hooper. Hush! Everyone is looking at us.” And they were. Every elderly, snobbish diner had been awoken, and had their eyes turned toward their table, equal looks of disdain on their overbred faces. “It wasn’t that funny,” added Sherlock crossly.

“Oh it was!” Molly tried to sober herself a bit, though she was still chuckling and hiccuping, She began wiping her eyes with the napkin. “Oh, oh, Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock this is just awful. Horrible.”

“Well if you’d leave off laughing…”

“No. Not that.” She gestured to back and forth between them, then around the restaurant. “This. This is awful.”

Sherlock felt his face fall, and his stomach clenched. “I’ve gone and cocked it all up, haven’t I?”

Molly reached across the table to him and grabbed his hand, squeezing. “You haven’t cocked anything up. I promise. It’s just…this isn’t us. Whatever we are...it’s not this. Let’s get out of this crypt, shall we?”

“You’re serious?”    


Molly shook her head vigorously YES! Her mascara was running, and some of her carefully constructed hair-do had started to give way. Sherlock thought she had never looked more beautiful. 

“Oh, thank god.”

He ripped at his tie, and held his hand up for Hugo in the international sign for “bill please.”

Sherlock came round the table to Molly and hauled her up out of her chair. “What shall we do instead?”


	14. The Big Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of the minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Folks! This is the last chapter, with an epilogue to follow. I can't believe it! Writing this has been an amazing experience! Thank you so much for all of your comments and kudos. I can't tell you how much I love hearing that you've enjoyed this little story.
> 
> I had a germ of an idea for a sequel today! More to come on that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! Epilogue to follow, probably in one or two days, as real life is intervening at the moment! Don't you hate that!?
> 
> All mistakes belong to me. I own nothing but a full heart.

Sherlock and Molly sat across from each other, at the best table, in the loud and busy chippy. Molly had declared herself “ravenous,” and confessed to having been much too nervous to eat today. She demanded chips, so she and Sherlock had dismissed the car, and walked to the very shop he had invited her to the day they had solved crimes together, and he had wished her happy in her engagement.

The owner still gave him extra portions, and Sherlock sat back in his seat enjoying the sight of a flushed and animated Molly Hooper, alternately stuffing chips in her mouth, licking her fingers and telling a story.

“…well, then they simply exploded, didn’t they? And when I say exploded, I mean ALL OVER!” She giggled happily at this fond memory. “So, I turned to Anderson and said, I guess we know what was in those intestines now, don’t we? And Anderson was so cross! Apparently he had a date right after work, and didn’t think she’d appreciate his cologne of eau de entrails.”

Sherlock shoved his plate of chips to the side. “Anderson’s a moron.”

Molly nodded and kept shoveling in chips. Where did she put it? “You dislike him so. Why? He likes you.”

Sherlock grimaced. “A little too much, if you ask me.”

Molly’s eyes went wide. “You don’t think…”

“I don’t want to talk about Anderson, Molly.”

“Well then,” she said, finally pushing her plate aside and picking up her tea, “what shall we talk about?”

So here it was.

“I think we should probably discuss that phone call, don’t you?”

*******************

Apologies were given. And accepted. On both sides. 

Molly finally heard the whole story from Sherlock’s point of view, and it killed her a bit inside, hearing it directly from him, not filtered through John or Mycroft. He had been hurt. So hurt. And not just by his sister. By her as well. And all she wanted to do was…make it better, somehow.

“I’ll go visit her with you, if you like. Eurus, I mean.”

Sherlock smiled fondly at her. “You would, wouldn’t you? Even after everything she put you through.”

“She’s your sister and you love her. That’s all that matters to me. Besides, I think I like her better than Mycroft right now.”

The both grinned, but then Sherlock’s face grew serious. “I’m sorry about your wedding day, Molly Hooper.”

Molly snorted. “No you’re not.”

Sherlock smirked. “No…I’m not.”

“You thought Tom was an idiot.” She accused.

“Tom WAS an idiot, Molly. Aside from his exceptional good looks,” Molly rolled her eyes at this, making him smile bigger, “he was no match for someone as brilliant and…” He paused searching for the right word.

“Oh, please, do go on,” said Molly dryly, “I’m dying to hear what he next one was supposed to be.”

“…foxy as you.”

She burst into laughter, and threw a chip at him.

*********************

Molly was sitting back in her chair, sipping tea. Sherlock had his arms folded on the table, chin resting on top of them, just watching her, when it occurred to him that, for once, he was perfectly happy. Odd, that.

“Sherlock,” Molly ventured, interrupting his musings, “There’s something else I think I need to apologize for.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “What’s that?”

She sighed and gestured to herself, from the top of her updo, which was quickly becoming an undo, to her smart dress. She bent and held up the heels that she had kicked off the minute they were seated. “For this. For the restaurant. For demanding a Romantic gesture. For making you think that was what you needed to do to…I don’t know…win me.” She dropped the heels with a clatter to the floor. “I was wrong. It wasn’t ever what I really wanted.”

He smiled at her, eyes crinkling. “It was an interesting experiment, though.”

She rolled her eyes at him, “in what, humiliation?”

“In chemistry, of course, Molly. Sometimes you just need to keep trying until you find the right ingredients to make a thing work, yes?”

And apparently science metaphors turned her on. Good to know.

Molly put aside her cup of tea and mirrored Sherlock’s pose on the table, arms folded, chin to forearm, and they just looked at each other.

“So,” Molly said seriously, “do you really think Anderson…”

“Oh, gagging for it.” He replied immediately, with a look that was both sly and amused.

“Can’t blame him there.” Molly replied, giving him a small grin.

They sat in silence for a few moments, smiling at each other, then Molly spoke.

“This is what I want, Sherlock. Right here.” He tilted his head at her, but didn’t speak, silently urging her to go on. “I just want…Sherlock Holmes. And his changeable eyes. And his beautiful cheekbones. And his gorgeous mind. And that’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted." 

Sherlock moved one hand from beneath his chin, sliding it to the middle of the table and resting it there.

“And I want Molly Hooper. And her beautiful hair. And her dear face. And her huge heart.”

Molly slid a hand out to his, and their fingers entwined.

“Well then,” Molly sighed, “that’s that I suppose. Problem solved.”

Sherlock threw back his head and laughed.

*******************

The evening was ending in a much more satisfactory fashion than it had begun.

Sherlock and Molly took a walk, a longer route than necessary, in a meandering fashion, back toward Molly’s flat.

He held her hand firmly in his the entire way, kept her as close as possible, and there were no awkward silences. In fact, quite the opposite.

Sherlock told her a bit about how the Romantic date planning committee between he, Mycroft, John and Greg had come about, and he even shared (as much as his ego could endure) some of the ideas and suggestions that had been bandied about and discarded. “Most of it was rubbish,” admitted Sherlock, “but I have to say, I do enjoy the bowling league more than I thought I would.”

This caused Molly to conjure in her mind a humorous image of Mycroft Holmes, bowling, in garish shoes and a three piece suit. This turned hilarious, when Sherlock produced a photo of his brother in just such an outfit, addressing the line. “He didn’t want to wear the shoes, but then John got him in a headlock, and Greg took over, so…”

Molly was alternatively appalled and amused by these stories of “male bonding” as she called it. She was particularly aggrieved that four intelligent men, two of genius level intellect!, could put their heads together, and come up with the evening that Molly had almost been “treated” to. 

This lead to a bit of a disagreement on how to actually describe said Romantic date.

Sherlock’s first ventured “abhorrent,” while Molly countered with “beastly.”

This, of course, was taken up as a challenge between them.

Sherlock: Calamitous.

Molly: Dreadful.

Sherlock: Execrable.

Molly: Foul.

Sherlock: Godawful.

Molly: Heinous.

This continued all the way to “Wacky,” then ended, since according to Sherlock trying to come up with words that begin with an X,Y or Z was tiresome and boring! unless one was playing Scrabble or doing a crossword puzzle.

“What I want to know,” said Sherlock a bit crossly, “Is how Greg and John could have let things get so far. They had to have known this would be a total cock-up.”

Molly smiled. “Yes, I’m sure they were both well aware.”

“Well then, why didn’t they try to stop me?!” said Sherlock sounding peeved.

Molly laughed, “Well for two reasons, I’m sure, though it does sound like John tried to talk sense into you,” 

She held up a finger, “ Number one, once a Holmes get an idea in his head, and is convinced he’s right, you’d better just go along, or else.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. 

Molly held up a second finger, “And two,” Molly continued, “entertainment value.”

“They’re both arseholes,” grumbled Sherlock. 

“Well, at least they had to suffer through Mycroft’s ruddy powerpoint along with you. That might be punishment enough for their sins.”

Sherlock was appalled, “He didn’t make you watch it?” There were things in that powerpoint that a significant other (fingers crossed) could hold over his head for the next fifty years.

“I think I got the edited version,” Molly said, rubbing his arm, and laughing a bit at the horrified look on his face. “Only what I assume was the expurgated Punctuality and Appearance and Style. About fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes!” Exclaimed Sherlock incredulously, thinking back on the mind-numbing two hour discourse that he, John and Greg had been subject to.

“It was plenty, thank-you-very-much. I almost bolloxed him five minutes into his diatribe on wrinkles and creases. Sherlock, I really think your brother has an unhealthy obsession with dry-cleaning.”

This lead Sherlock to dark thoughts about his brother again, and what type of torture he’d like to inflict on him.

“Asphyxiation,” Sherlock offered. “Bludgeoning,” Molly returned.

Sherlock: “Cat o nine tails.”

Molly: “Decaptitation.” This punctuated by a chopping motion of the hand.

Sherlock: “Exterminate.” Sounding quite like a Dalek, to Molly’s delight.

Molly: “Flagellate.”

They only made it to “Thumbscrews” before stopping this time, as they suddenly found themselves on the walkway in front of Molly’s flat.

Molly turned to Sherlock, dropping his hand. “We’re probably going to have to forgive the tosser, you know.”

“And why is that pray-tell?!” Sherlock exclaimed, scowling.

“Well,” Molly began, moving a bit closer to him and playing with the lapel of his coat, “he may have gone a little overboard…”

“A LITTLE!”

“He may have gone a little overboard,” she repeated calmly, “but he did it because you’re his brother, and he wants you to be happy. When you think about it, it was rather…sweet…how much he wanted to help.”

“He’s an interfering ponce,” Sherlock huffed.

“Yes his is, and he and I will be discussing that, but…he’s still your brother, and you love him.”

Sherlock made a face at this.

“AND,” Molly continued, “think how disappointed he’ll be that his Romantic date was such a…”

“Catastrophe?” prompted Sherlock.

“Debacle,” Molly countered. “Just think, Sherlock, how awful he’s going to feel. All his plans! Ruined because of a rhino!”

Sherlock snorted.

“No really, Sherlock,” Molly tugged at his coat. “Think about it. We bailed out on dinner, and we didn’t even make it to the club he had picked out for Romantic dancing. I confess, I am a little curious. I keep picturing some sort of 1940’s dance hall with 90 year old WWII veterans and dancing girls shuffling around on their walkers to Glenn Miller.” Molly giggled at this picture in her mind, but when she looked up at Sherlock, he was staring at her, his look serious and intense.

“What?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead he took her little purse from her hand and dropped it to the ground. 

He took two steps back, then extended his arm toward her, hand palm up.

Molly’s gaze moved from her discarded purse to Sherlock. “What are you playing at?” Molly asked, looking suspiciously at him.

He merely wriggled the fingers of his outstretched hand at her.

What else could she do? She placed her hand in his.

Sherlock lifted their joined hands, and lead her into a series of perfect turns, expertly twirling her, so the skirt of her frock belled, making her look like the ballerina he had compared her to in his mind hours ago.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then he pulled her into him, free hand low around her waist, their joined hands raised in the classic waltz pose, Molly’s other hand trapped between them, resting on his heart.

“Wow, “ she said laughing a bit breathlessly, “you COULD make a rhino look like Ginger Rogers.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. He bent forward, until their faces were centimeters apart, and whispered. “Big. Finish.”

Then he was kissing her.

It was warm and it was wet. Molly’s mouth opened beneath his, and the tips of their tongues met, and circled.

Her hand, pulled from his, and she slid both arms up around his neck, into his hair.

His free hand joined the other around her waist ,and he pulled her to him as tight as he could.

It went on and on and on. And Sherlock’s mind was like the mirrored surface of a lake on a windless day. It was all peace. 

And his only thought was…“At last.”

Finally, Molly had to pull back to breathe, and they ended up forehead to forehead, Sherlock’s eyes closed, still riding the high.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmmmmm?”

“I think I’m all done with the boring bits.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Can we move on to the intercourse now please?”

His eyes popped open wide at this, still forehead to forehead with Molly, but she was giving him an impish grin.

Her hands slid out of his hair and away from his neck, her eyes locked on his, as she bent to pick up her discarded purse. Then she began walking backwards. One step. Two. Three. Until she turned and skipped up the steps, where she dug for her keys and unlocked the door.

“And Sherlock?” she said, turning to look at him. “Bring the mints.”

She pushed the door open and held it. An invitation.

The smile that split Sherlock’s face was her favorite. The wide grin. The crinkled eyes. The one that made her want to lick him all over. 

“Well,” he replied, as he began walking toward her, “fresh breath is essential.”

********************

221A Baker Street

Martha Hudson and Mycroft Holmes sat, eyeing each other, across that lady’s worn kitchen table, over their discarded teacups. There was a mental stand-off of some sort going on.

Then, Mrs. Hudson reached up to her ear, and extracted something. Some sort of…device.

She held that hand out to Mycroft, palm up, and wiggled her fingers in the classic pantomime of “gimme.”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, but at Mrs. Hudson’s glare and even more frantic wiggling of her fingers, he gave in. He reached up to his own ear, and pulled out a similar device, and dropped it in her palm, joining its twin.

She smirked a bit at him, as she unceremoniously dropped the devices into her cleavage for safe-keeping.

Mycroft continued to glare at her, but this seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the lady.

“Well?” She prompted.

He huffed and gave her what is generally referred to as “the stink eye,” but put his hand into his jacket and produced a billfold, out which he extracted a crisp 50 pound note, before returning the billfold to its proper place.

He slapped the note down sharply, and slid it across the table.

Mrs. Hudson laughed, delightedly, as she snatched it up, and sent it on it’s way to join the other items, now nestled in her bosom.

She smiled hugely at Mycroft. “And?”

He grumbled, but managed to bite out…”You were right.”

“And?” she prompted again.

“I was wrong.”

This was so delicious that Mrs. Hudson banged the table with her palms, causing the tea things to jump.

“Now..say it altogether, properly, but do it slowly, so I can really enjoy it.”

Mycroft’s jaw was clenched, but he managed bite out, “You. Were. Right. And. I. Was. Wrong.”

This utterance was so delightful, that there was clapping involved and even the stomping of feet! And there was shameless crowing.  


“Oh that was the easiest fifty quid I’ve ever made! That you, Mycroft Holmes, could think that I, Martha Hudson, couldn’t plant a simple bug on Sherlock without his finding out…why it’s like you don’t even know me! Honestly, Mycroft!”

“Well?” he snapped, “How did you do it?”

Mrs. Hudson had pulled the 50 pound note back out of her brassiere and was waving it around humming “God Save the Queen.”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Mycroft barked. He had very little patience left. Though disaster had been averted, his dream date had turned into a nightmare. And he wasn’t a man who took disappointment gracefully.

“Hmmmm?” Mrs. Hudson said, stuffing the bill back from whence it came.

“How did you do it?”

“Oh that!,” she waved him off. “Easiest thing in the world. French ticklers!”

“French…what?”  

Mrs. Hudson suddenly sat up straight and became all business again. “Now. I’ve won our little bet fair and square. And you, Mycroft Holmes, are going to live up to your part of the bargain. You are going to keep your pointy nose out of Sherlock’s business. He’s in good hands now, with our Molly.”

Mycroft hrrumphed.

Mrs. Hudson regarded him like a naughty child. “And now that we finally have Sherlock squared away, it’s time we sorted you out!”

Mycroft jumped at this, horrified. “Me? What are you…”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Hudson replied, nodding her head at him. “Greg and I had a long talk about you down the pub the other night.”

“You and Greg?!” Mycroft was appalled. “Down the pub?!”

“And we quite agreed, something really has to be done!”

Mycroft leapt to his feet. “How dare you! I’ll have you know…”

Mrs. Hudson stood as well. “I have three words for you Mycroft Holmes.” She paused dramatically. “Lady. Elizabeth. Smallwood.”

Mycroft felt his intestines freeze at the mention of this name, and he fell back in his seat. How in the devil did she know? “How…how…”

Mrs. Hudson reseated herself calmly, and began fixing each of them another cup of tea. “There’s a little shop I frequent. Owned by the nicest Middle Eastern couple. I was there a few weeks ago, and wasn’t I surprised to run into Lady Smallwood? Not quite the place I expected to meet such a high kick lady as herself, I’m sure. But, she told me herself…Martha, she said, why should I pay full price, when I can get the same service here much more reasonably? Quite sensible, I thought. Thrifty. I like that in a woman. Well, didn’t we get to talking, and we found out we had ever so much in common. Both widows, you know. And she confessed to me, quite in confidence, that there was a certain gentlemen she was interested in. And she was just so downhearted about it, poor dear. Seems she had made quite a few overtures, and he just wasn’t responding. And her, such a lovely lady! Well, I quite felt for her. It seems that the gentleman in question is rather…repressed, and she was convinced that he wasn’t interested in her at all. Well, Elizabeth, I said, don’t I know exactly the type? And I assured her that any man would be interested in someone as beautiful and accomplished as she. And I said, I’m sure he’s just dithering about, as men do you know, trying to make up his mind, and that maybe….hopefully…he had some very good friends who might give him some encouragement. And, you know…a little push.”

“But…but…” 

“And I told her she shouldn’t let herself get discouraged by the old prudey-pants. I was sure things would all work out in the end.”

“I…I don’t…I…”

“Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson, said, sliding a fresh cup of tea across the table, “do you know what we need?”

“Alcohol?” Mycroft asked.

Mrs. Hudson rubbed her hands together. This was her milieu. “A strategy.”


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my dears, this is it. Thank you all so much for your kind words, your funny comments and your kudos. This has been a blast!
> 
> Though this is the end of this story, I do have an idea for a sequel, and will be hammering it out in my brain. I've outlined a bit, and will get to work shortly!
> 
> What a wonderful bunch you all are!
> 
> For the last time, this time, all mistake are mine, and I own nothing!

One Month Later…

221B Baker Street

Sherlock Holmes reclined, legs outstretched to an ottoman, on his very comfortable chair, in the completely renovated 221B Baker Street. He held a book aloft, a scientific treatise on “The Effects of Scoliosis on the Mind of the Psychopath.” Very interesting reading! He would have to begin a more intense study of the spinal column.

He was….comfortable. Content really. No. It was more than that. He was King of the World! This internal declaration prompted a memory of one of he and Molly’s first "official" dates. Molly had made him dinner (delicious!) then coerced him into watching an execrable film staring Kate Winslet (lovely!) and some foppish American actor that looked like he belonged in a boy band. That Molly had found this film, about one of the most horrific tragedies in human history, Romantic, had astonished him. Romantic? The poncy male lead had died, drowned no less, in the freezing ocean! Sherlock had suggested to Molly that if this, indeed, was her idea of Romance, he could have spared himself much misery, and merely thrown himself into a bathtub full of ice cubes and declared himself. Molly had simply replied that it would have preferable to his first effort, and that had shut him up.

In any case, he was very content.

One source of this contentment was standing in his kitchen doorway with Greg Lestrade, sipping a lager, and laughing. At some inane comment from Greg, no doubt. The man was a complete nutter, and an endless source of amusement…to John. 

John Watson had returned to Baker Street permanently. Not to 221B, but to a renovated 221C, Mrs. Hudson’s long unused basement apartment, which was being fixed up for John and Rosie. The two were staying with Sherlock temporarily, while the place was being completely outfitted for their needs. John had confessed to Sherlock, one night at the pub after bowling, that he hated his flat. That the memories of living there with Mary were causing him feelings of loneliness and despondency. So, Sherlock had suggested 221C, and John had jumped at it. This was a boon for Sherlock, as he now had his best friend back under his roof and available to him at all times. Though he had sincerely promised not to call John at all hours, just to ask him to fetch his phone, or a pint of milk from Speedy’s. And he had kept that promise. Mostly.

This living situation was convenient for John as well, in that he had almost constant access to babysitting, in the form of any one of Rosie’s three trusted godparents. Well, mostly trusted. They were ranked in the following order:

1\. Molly Hooper. Trusted 100% of the time. No questions asked.

2\. Mrs. Hudson. Trusted 85% of the time. The other 15% being the first two weeks after returning from a visit to her sister, when she was still getting over the after-effects of her sister’s “good bottle of sherry,” and tended to be a bit forgetful.

3\. Sherlock Holmes. Trusted 100% of the time under the supervision of Molly Hooper. Trusted 50% of the time on his own. This, Sherlock felt, was slightly unfair, but John had blown two very innocent situations way out of proportion…in Sherlock’s opinion.

A. John had come home early one day to find Rosie in her highchair, contentedly gnawing on her teether, while Sherlock was alternately microwaving and then smashing eyeballs on the kitchen table. That Rosie had been wearing the little protective goggles that Sherlock had procured for her, had found this activity not a bit disturbing, and had actually been screaming and wriggling with delight as each eyeball popped merrily when Sherlock smashed it with a hammer, held no weight with John. 

B. The second incident had occurred when John had returned home to find Sherlock pacing the front room with Rosie in arms, comforting the fretful child as any good godfather would do. John had taken issue with the fact that the front room had been festooned with photos of a particularly grisly crime scene involving bludgeoning, stabbing, decapitation and the bodies being run over by a vehicle for good measure. Sherlock and Rosie had been studying a photograph of the tire tracks on the victim’s headless corpse, while Sherlock gave the infant a sing-song lecture on how the tire’s striations would help to identify the offending vehicle. John had again over-reacted. Sherlock really worried for Rosie’s education.

But, even still, it was working out very well.

Another source of his contentment, the greatest one, was currently curled up on his lap, head resting on his shoulder, perusing a copy of Pathologist Monthly. She was alternately turning pages, and for some unknown reason, giggling. Sherlock had himself already read the journal (fascinating!) and had found nothing funny in it, but, then again, he rarely understood Molly’s sense of humor. 

The addition of a romantic relationship to his life, that relationship being with Molly Hooper, had been everything John had once promised him it would be. Love had not, after all, been the jarring distraction from his work that he had feared it would be. In fact, it was quite the opposite. 

Sherlock found himself sharper, his brain working better than it ever had. He was closing cases with an astonishing speed that, though he would never admit it out loud, surprised even him. 

Greg, who had been benefiting greatly from Sherlock’s increased acumen offered, “well, you’re all cleaned out now, aren’t you? You’re not clogged anymore, Sherlock. Of course you’re thinking better. Your brains were all backed up in your skull. Nothing like a bit of the How’s Your Father to clear the mind.”

Sherlock, however, didn’t think that this was quite it. The intercourse was, undeniably…amazing. No really, it was outstanding. Molly Hooper, he discovered, did not simply have pretty hair, she had pretty…everything. And she was really quite astonishingly flexible.

But, as good as the intercourse was, it was more than that. Sherlock found Molly's companionship invigorating. Molly Hooper, this extraordinary, brilliant, kind, loyal, tender-hearted woman, loved HIM. Sherlock Holmes. A man often described, at best, as disagreeable, irritating, egomaniacal, obnoxious and a total prat. Molly seemed to see something else though. Something that called to her heart. They were both, admittedly, odd creatures, but their individual oddness seemed to fit together into a whole that brought him so much joy that Sherlock was almost embarrassed to admit it. Even to John. Especially to Greg. 

His “friends” had taken to making up ridiculous nicknames for him, and teasing him mercilessly. 

If they caught him so much as texting Molly during the day, even if it was just to say hello, how’s your day? it was, “Oh, look at Romeo, texting kisses to the Missus.” A poem!

If he was five minutes late for bowling…”Oh ho Don Juan! Have trouble pulling yourself away from your bit of stuff?”

Once, when he had forgotten an appointment entirely (Molly’s fault!), and he called to apologize, “Don’t worry about it, dreamboat. We know what a Stallion you are.”

This abuse continued on and on…”Lover boy, Lothario, Playboy, Ladykiller, Chick magnet, and even Tomcat!” And that was just Mrs. Hudson.

To say Molly had been amused by this teasing was an understatement. When he continued to grouse about it, she started whispering the very same words in his ear every chance she got, in a highly… suggestive tone. Then she would “kiss it and make it better,” her words, and he began to believe that maybe it wasn’t so bad being a…stud.

He felt Molly wriggling around on his lap, trying to get more comfortable, and he looked down at her. She had closed the hilarious Pathologist Monthly, and was now simply…cuddling, her gaze lifted to his.

Oh bugger, he couldn’t help it. He had to kiss her. Nicknames be damned! He did so, thoroughly, and Molly sighed as he ended it with a little rub of his nose against hers, before he turned his attention back to his book.

Across the room, after observing this interchange, John remarked to Greg, “Nope. Sorry. I’ve gotten over awkward and embarrassing, but it’s still weird.”

“Nah!” said Greg, good-naturedly. “Perfectly natural. They’re still in the honeymoon phase. It’s all lovey-dovey now, but give it a few months...Sherlock will be yelling obscenities, and Molly will be heaving crockery around, just like me and my ex." Greg scowled. "I'm too tired for a shag Greg! Pick up your socks Greg! Have a wank instead Greg! Don’t wear your baton to bed Greg! The cow.”

John eyed him. “And why did your marriage break-up again?.”

Greg ignored this. “Besides, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You aren’t the one that walked in on them down the morgue. I'm still seeing stars.”

“Oh Greg, really!” cried Sherlock from across the room. He was stroking Molly’s hair, while her face was buried in his neck. “It was only the one time. And it wasn’t as if there was a body laid out on the table!”

“Not a dead one anyway,” offered Molly from Sherlock’s neck with a snorting little laugh.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Greg admitted to John. “Still weird.”

There was a knock on the door.

John looked to Sherlock. “You expecting someone?”

Sherlock shook his head no, but made no move to get up from his cozy seat.

“I’ll get it then, shall I?” asked John sarcastically.

He pulled the door open and was surprised, actually shocked, to be faced with Lady Elizabeth Smallwood.

“Well this can’t be good,” John said in the way of a greeting.

“Excuse me, Dr. Watson?” said Lady Smallwood.

“Sorry! Sorry! Please come in.” John gestured for her to enter, which she did, cautiously looking around, her handsome features carefully composed. John eyed Sherlock over the back of her head, eyebrows raised, but Sherlock only shrugged, the message clear. No idea.

Lady Smallwood stopped in the middle of the room and faced Sherlock and Molly, both still reclined in the chair.

“Mr. Holmes.”

“Lady Smallwood. Always a pleasure. Except when it isn’t. May I ask what the devil you’re doing here?”

Lady Smallwood narrowed her eyes at him. “Your brother…that is, Mr. Homes-the-elder, texted me. Asked me to be here at 7pm sharp. Said it was quite urgent.”

“That’s news to me.” Sherlock informed her. “Are you sure you aren’t here to spy on me? Make sure I’m towing the line? That sounds more like your speed.”

Molly decided that perhaps she should wade in before there was trouble. She jumped up off of Sherlock’s lap and stepped toward Lady Smallwood, her hand outstretched.

“My lady, forgive our manners. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Molly Hooper.”

Molly’s hand was shaken firmly in a very business-like manner. “Dr. Hooper, of course. Very nice to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Mike.”

From behind them came Greg’s voice “Oho! Mike is it?”

Lady Smallwood turned on him, just noticing another presence in the room.

Again, Molly interceded. “Lady Smallwood, this is Inspector Greg Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.”

“Oh? Yes, of course. I’ve read about you in Dr. Watson’s blog.” Lady Smallwood extended a hand to Greg, who came to her and grasped her hand firmly. Instead of shaking it, however, he raised it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles, giving the woman a roguish grin. 

“Charmed, I’m sure. Mike’s got good taste.”

Lady Smallwood seemed a bit unsettled at this comment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Are you sure Mycroft said to meet him here?”

Lady Smallwood extracted her hand from Greg’s, with a bit of a tug, and turned to Sherlock. “Of course I’m sure. He was quite specific.”

Suddenly there was another loud knock at the door.

“Well,” Molly said, “that must be Mycroft then. I’m sure he can explain everything.”

Molly went to the door and pulled it open, revealing a grinning Mrs. Hudson. Standing directly behind the lady, only his head and shoulders visible, was Mycroft Holmes. 

“Hello, Molly, dear! Lovely to see you.” She pushed past Molly and into the room, making a beeline for Lady Smallwood, exclaiming, “Elizabeth! What a surprise!”

Sherlock observed his brother from his perch. He could only see his head and a bit of his shoulders, as Molly was blocking the rest of his view, but there was something…off. He squinted. Was Mycroft wearing an earring?

Molly Hooper stood in the doorway, gaping at Mycroft Holmes. She had never, in her life, seen such a…display! Aside from a jaunty earring, Mycroft was wearing a…hoodie! Underneath this was a vest, white, with black lettering declaring, “I’m the Big Bang.”

Looking lower, he had on a pair of jeans, at least three sizes too big, cinched tight, low at the waist with a belt, and showing two inches of brightly patterned pants!

She looked to his feet. Trainers! What the devil?

Her gaze moved back to Mycroft’s face, which was embarrassed and miserable. Mrs. Hudson!

Molly whirled to face the room, arms outstretched, trying to hide as much of him as possible.

“Oh dear! Mycroft tells me he’s suddenly not feeling well. What a shame! I'm just going to escort him home, then return. Carry on!” 

 

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Great Double Act](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9499937) by [Woaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woaf/pseuds/Woaf)




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